EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 


SANTA  BAPvBARA  STATE  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 


THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

HEW  YORK  •    BOSTON  •   CHICAGO  •   DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •    SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNB 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA.  Ltd. 

TOKONTO 


THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

[THE  NURSERY) 


BY 

EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

Author  of  "Brunel's  Tower," 
"Old  Dklabole,"  etc. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1917 

All  rights  reservtd 


Copyright,  1917 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published,  May,   1917. 


PR 

snl 

THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

CHAPTER  I 

AT    HYTHE 

Down  the  street  that  falls  from  Colchester  to  Hythe,  on 
an  evening  in  high  summer,  there  walked  a  young  woman. 

None  accosted  her,  for  none  knew  her.  A  man  or  two 
turned  a  second  glance  upon  her,  because  she  was  fair  to 
see  and  her  widow's  weeds  made  a  striking  frame  for  the 
picture  of  her  corn-coloured  hair,  grey  eyes,  and  beautiful 
mouth ;  but  she  was  a  stranger,  and,  as  she  strolled  down 
Hythe  Hill,  she  reflected  that  not  a  soul  of  all  the  thou- 
sands circling  round  about  her  had  ever  seen  her  face  or 
heard  her  name.  The  thought  cheered  her  rather  than 
cast  her  down.  Resolution  and  humour  both  homed  in 
her  expression ;  her  almond-shaped  eyes  were  keen,  her 
mouth  was  wide  awake.  The  lips  moved  and  tightened 
sometimes.  She  looked  about  her  and  marked  everything; 
occasionally  she  lifted  her  hands  to  shut  in  a  picture,  or 
half  closed  her  eyes  to  get  the  colour  values  of  a  scene,  as 
artists  will.  She  wore  little  crape,  yet  contrived  to  make 
it  clear  that  she  was  a  widow,  newly  made.  Her  interest 
in  the  scene  about  her  was  fitful,  for  between  moments  of 
attention  to  the  life  and  bustle  of  the  quays  on  Colne 
river-side,  the  woman  retreated  into  herself.  But  out- 
ward forms  of  things  —  their  lines  and  colours  and  move- 
ments —  continually  attracted  her  eyes  and  distracted 
her  thoughts. 

She  felt  a  desire  to  hear  human  speech  and  asked  ques- 
tions of  men  at  their  work.     Great  warehouses  thrust  up 

1 

:  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 
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2  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

on  either  side  of  the  narrowed  mouth  of  Colne  estuary. 
They  hung  their  cranes  over  the  water,  and  beneath  them 
the  little  merchant  coasters  and  small  tramp  steamers  lay, 
to  give,  or  receive.  Great  Thames  barges  were  here  and 
other  less  splendid  craft.  They  brought  coals  and  timber 
and  grain,  and  bore  away  oil  and  oil-cake,  ironwork,  and 
the  varied  merchandise  of  Colchester. 

There  was  a  barge  with  open  hatches  unloading 
Indian  corn,  and  the  wanderer  found  herself  much  at- 
tracted by  the  great  masses  of  red-golden  seed.  ISIen 
bore  it  away,  and  one  stood  below  knee-deep  in  the  bright 
corn  and  scooped  it  into  the  sacks  of  the  stevedores. 
They  came  and  went  sure-footed  along  bending  planks, 
and  transferred  the  cargo  to  a  granary,  whose  open  door 
gaped  for  them  on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  The  girl, 
for  she  was  not  much  more,  found  great  pleasure  in  this 
spectacle  and  made  a  mental  picture. 

Presently  she  turned  away  and  followed  a  path  that  led 
south  over  meadow-land  beside  the  widening  river.  The 
fields  were  spattered  with  dark-coloured  kine,  and  beyond 
them,  to  the  east,  a  low  hill  rose,  heavily  wooded.  A  rail- 
way ran  below  it  —  the  line  to  Wyvenhoe  and  Brightling- 
sea.  Looking  back,  the  painter  saw  how  pleasantly  the 
masts  of  the  ships  spired  together  among  the  houses. 
Long  shadows  fell  now,  but  above  them  the  spars  flashed 
up  into  the  sunshine,  and  little  pennons  fluttering  at  their 
peaks  twinkled,  like  red  and  blue  stars. 

The  visitor  found  a  stile  in  the  fields  and  sat  down  on 
the  topmost  bar.  She  was  tall,  but  now  she  drew  up  her 
legs,  rested  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and  remained  in  this 
somewhat  cramped  position  with  thought  in  her  eyes. 
Her  lips  moved  to  the  tune  in  her  mind.  Sometimes  they 
flickered  with  a  fleeting  smile ;  but  that  was  seldom.  For 
the  most  part  her  expression  ranged  over  more  serious 
emotions.  Actual  sorrow  found  no  home  there.  Passion 
once  lit  her  eyes ;  her  mouth  set  and  her  teeth  flashed 
whitely.     But  the  anger  vanished  in  an  expiration  and 


AT  HYTHE  8 

she  grew  mild  again.  Underlying  all  the  play  of  light  and 
darkness  revealed  in  her  features,  there  dwelt  determina- 
tion. Little  hair  lines  were  already  woven  by  the  spiders 
of  thought  and  care  upon  her  forehead;  but  her  face  was 
imperious  as  well  as  beautiful,  and  under  repose  it  showed 
will  and  nerve. 

A  fellow-creature  came  to  the  stile  —  one  who  seemed 
less  at  pains  to  practise  self-control.  She  was  a  girl  of 
eighteen  or  nineteen,  clad  in  a  plain  homespun  dress  and 
a  black  straw  hat  with  a  white  ribbon.  She  wore  no 
gloves  and  carried  nothing.  She  stared  in  front  of  her 
on  the  ground  Avith  her  head  bent  over  her  bosom.  She 
was  slim  and  only  blessed  with  the  beauty  of  youth.  She 
looked  haggard  and  her  gait  appeared  unsteady.  The 
stranger  alighted  from  the  stile  to  let  her  pass,  and,  climb- 
ing over  without  thanks,  she  went  forward  toward  Hythe. 

The  elder's  eyes  followed  her  with  interest  until  the  girl 
had  vanished ;  then  she  returned  to  her  thoughts  for 
another  hour.  Presently  she  looked  at  her  watch,  saw 
that  it  was  past  eight  o'clock,  and  began  to  walk  back  by 
the  way  she  had  come.  Instead  of  crossing  the  bridge  at 
Hythe,  however,  she  followed  the  dwindling  creek  with  pur- 
pose to  reach  her  destination  by  the  river.  For  the  valley 
invited  her  and  the  sun,  that  had  set  behind  a  mist  of  dis- 
tant trees,  made  beauty  there.  But  clouds  swallowed  it 
quickly  and  night  soon  fell.  She  was  now  in  a  region  some- 
what lonely  at  this  hour,  for  the  workpeople  had  all  gone 
and  the  river-side  was  deserted.  Presently  she  felt 
doubtful  of  her  way  and  desired  the  appearance  of  a  fellow- 
creature  to  guide  her.  But  none  came.  The  light  died 
fast  and  for  a  moment  the  artist  stood  irresolute  on  rough 
and  broken  ground  by  the  river.  At  water's  edge  a  barge 
was  building  and  its  naked  ribs  rose  over  her  head  and  made 
a  pattern  against  the  sky.  The  stern  of  the  barge  stood 
not  much  above  the  river  where,  oily,  sluggish,  silent,  it 
rounded  in  a  backwater.  Colne  thrust  out  a  muddy  finger 
here,  that  narrowed  through  a  channel  into  the  fields  be- 


4  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

hind,  and  the  woman  was  hesitating  whether  to  turn  back, 
when  she  saw  something  move  between  the  stem  of  the 
growing  barge  and  the  water.  At  first  she  thought  it  was 
a  dog;  then  she  saw  it  was  a  human  being.  An  accident 
of  movement  revealed  her.  She  was  a  girl  —  the  same  girl 
who  had  passed  over  the  stile  two  hours  before. 

So  the  two  met  again,  and  the  stranger  welcomed  the 
native. 

"  For  goodness'  sake  tell  me  how  to  get  out  of  this 
hole,"  she  said.     "  I'm  utterly  lost." 

For  a  moment  no  answer  came ;  then  the  crouching  girl 
spoke  in  the  accents  of  one  suddenly  wakened  from  sleep. 

"  You  can't  go  that  way,  and  you  won't  find  the  path 
if  you're  new  to  it.     Best  go  back  to  the  bridge." 

"  But  I'm  not  sure  of  the  way  behind  me  now.  And 
you.''     Aren't  you  going  somewhere?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  said  the  dreary  voice. 

"  Are  you  waiting  for  somebody  ?  " 

"  No." 

There  was  a  pause  and  the  elder's  memory  quickened. 

"  Forgive  me,  but  you  passed  me  in  the  fields  at  a  stile, 
didn't  you.?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  You  don't  sound  happy." 

"  Who  is.?  You'd  best  to  go  away  and  look  after  your- 
self." 

"  That's  what  I'm  doing.  There's  nobody  else  to  look 
after  me  but  myself.  Perhaps  it's  better  luck  to  look 
after  yourself  than  depend  upon  other  people." 

"  If  your  life's  worth  living  —  not  if  it  isn't." 

"  Of  course  it's  worth  living.  Isn't  yours  ?  Such  a 
young  thing  as  you,  with  your  life  all  in  front  of  you." 

"  My  life's  all  behind  me  for  that  matter." 

"  Well,  come  up  out  of  that  mud  and  talk  to  me. 
You're  lonely  and  I'm  lonely ;  and  you  know  the  way  out 
of  this  dead  hole  and  I  don't." 

The  girl  did  not  move  or  reply,  so  the  speaker  ap- 


AT  HYTHE  5 

preached  her.  She  was  sitting  on  a  plank  with  her  feet 
dangling  over  the  water  a  3^ard  beneath.  Upon  it  floated 
dim,  amorphous  washes  of  tar,  stained  to  brightness  by 
the  last  light  of  the  western  sky. 

"  What  a  horrid  place  to  choose !  '* 

"  As  good  as  any  other." 

The  stranger  put  her  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder.  She 
had  divined  the  situation. 

"  To  think,"  she  said,  "  that  I  should  come  to  another 
girl  at  a  minute  like  this.  You  poor,  little,  forlorn  dear ! 
But  I  wonder  if  you  are  as  poor  and  forlorn  as  I  am?  " 

She  saw  the  expression  on  the  face  of  the  unhappy  one 
and  stooped  down  and  kissed  her.  The  caress  unsealed  a 
torrent  of  tears. 

"  Go  away  and  let  me  alone,"  sobbed  the  girl ;  but  irreso- 
lution was  in  her  voice  and  the  elder  found  her  task  easy 
enough. 

"  Get  up  and  come  away  from  this  evil  water  and  talk 
to  me.  Notliing  happens  by  chance,  you  know.  It 
wasn't  meant  you  should.  It's  seldom  worth  while  — 
never  from  anything  outside.  If  a  girl's  sick  inside,  per- 
haps —  but  not  for  anything  outside." 

A  sort  of  wonder  came  into  the  face  of  the  sufferer. 

"  I  swear  to  God  I'd  have  done  it,"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  doubt  your  pluck  —  only  your  sense.  Tell 
me  about  it.     But  come  away  from  the  water  first." 

In  her  heart  the  elder  found  a  shadow  of  a  smile. 

But  she  spoke  seriously  and  pretended  more  than  she 
felt.  The  girl  was  a  slight  thing  for  all  her  grief,  and 
doubtless  the  grief  was  exaggerated.  The  stranger 
woman  assumed  a  sterner  vein,  raised  up  the  girl,  then 
linked  an  arm  in  hers  and  led  her  from  the  water. 

"  What's  your  name.''  "  she  asked,  but  the  other  did  not 
reply.  She  took  out  a  pocket-handkerchief  and  dried  her 
t^ars.  For  a  time  she  walked  in  front  and  turned  her 
way  up  the  valley.  The  beady  light  of  a  gas  lamp  twin- 
kled far  off,  and  neither  spoke  untU  they  reached  it.     It 


6  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

stood  beneath  a  hedge,  and  beyond  was  a  gate  that  opened 
to  a  road.     Then  the  girl  turned  on  the  woman. 

"  You've  lost  a  husband  by  the  look  of  it  —  and  I've 
lost  him  that  was  going  to  be  my  husband.  You've  kept 
me  alive  to-night.  But  what  was  the  sense  of  doing 
that?" 

*'  Were  you  betrothed  to  him  ?  " 

"  No ;  but  he  meant  it  all  right.  Then  he  had  bad  luck 
and  forgot  all  about  me.  As  if  bad  luck  mattered  to  me. 
He  loved  me,  and  then  bad  luck  stopped  him  and  he 
stopped  loving  me.  And  what  worse  can  happen  than 
that?" 

"  Plenty  of  things.  I  suppose  you're  making  all  this 
fuss  because  you're  going  to  have  a  baby  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I'm  not.  He's  not  that  sort.  More  am  I. 
He's  a  gentleman,  and  a  very  clever  man.  We're  superior 
people.  I'm  a  clerk.  He  was  going  to  ask  me  to  marry 
him  when  he  came  home.  I  knew  it  without  his  telling  me. 
There  was  a  lot  understood  and  not  spoken  between  us. 
Everybody  knew  it  was  like  that.  Then  he  went ;  and 
when  he  did  come  home  without  any  luck,  he  dropped 
me." 

"  Why  didn't  you  tackle  him  and  tell  him  his  luck  made 
no  difference  to  your  feelings  ?  " 

"  It  was  for  him  to  ask  me  if  it  did.  Besides,  we'd  never 
talked  about  feelings." 

"  Perhaps  you  thought  he  meant  more  than  he  did?  " 

"  I'm  too  clever  for  that.  I  know  exactly  what  he 
meant." 

*'  I'm  sure  you're  clever.  I  dare  say  it  will  all  go  right 
yet.  If  he's  had  a  hard  knock,  it  may  take  him  time  to 
get  over  it.  Men  are  different  from  us.  All  sorts  of  silly 
little  things  throw  their  love-making  out  of  gear.  Per- 
haps he's  proud?  " 

"  Yes,  he  is." 

"  Then,  of  course,  if  he's  not  in  a  position  to  go  on  with 
it " 


AT  HYTHE  7 

"  'V\Tiat  do  things  like  that  matter  to  a  girl  who  loves 
him?" 

"  It's  what  they  matter  to  him  —  not  you.  With 
women  love's  stronger  than  pride;  with  men  it  isn't.     If 

he's  brave  and  clever,  he'll  get  right  again,  and  then 

Have  you  got  friends?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have." 

"  That's  sometliing.  I  haven't  got  a  friend  in  the 
world." 

"What!  With  a  beautiful  face  like  that?  But  per- 
haps you  don't  want  them  now  your  husband's  dead." 

"  I  want  them  badly  enough." 

"Poor?" 

"  Ever  so  poor." 

The  girl  thought  for  a  moment. 

"  I'll  be  your  fnend,"  she  said.  "  I  must  be,  come  to 
think  of  it,  whether  you  want  me  for  a  friend  or  not.  I'd 
be  dead  flesh  now  but  for  you." 

"  What's  your  name?  " 

"  You  won't  tell  about  this  ?  You  never  would  whisper 
it  to  man  or  woman,  would  you  ?  " 

"  Need  you  ask  another  woman  that?  I've  thought  of 
it,  too,  for  that  matter." 

"  It's  lovely  things  like  you  they  do  find  drowned,"  said 
the  girl,  "  not  homely  creatures  like  me." 

"  You're  pretty  when  j^ou're  happy,  I  expect.  Every- 
body's pretty  when  they're  happy." 

"  There's  a  gentleman  I  know  has  got  a  death  mask  of  a 
French  girl  that  was  drowned,"  continued  the  native.  "  An 
artist,  going  into  the  Morgue,  found  her  and  thought  it 
wasn't  good  such  loveliness  should  be  lost.  So  they  made 
a  mask  of  her  face  before  it  was  gone.  You  can  see  the 
matted  eyelashes  on  her  little  cheek.  Made  to  love,  not  to 
drown,  that  girl." 

"  Drowning  often  follows  loving.  I  know  the  mask. 
I've  copied  it  when  I  was  learning  to  draw." 

There  fell  a  silence,  then  the  girl  spoke  suddenly : 


8  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  My  name's  Margery  Mahew,  and  I'm  a  clerk  at  Am- 
brose's gardens.     And  who  might  you  be?  " 

"  My  name's  Aveline  Brown,  and  I'm  stopping  in  Station 
Road.  I'm  an  artist,  and  I  shall  find  plenty  of  beautiful 
pictures  here.  D'you  tliink  I  shall  find  anybody  to  buy 
them?" 

"  I  hope  so.     I  don''t  know." 

They  trudged  along  for  some  time  without  speaking. 
Then  Margery  explained  the  road. 

"  The  Park  is  up  to  our  left  now,  and  we  shall  come  out 
by  the  bridge  presently.  That's  the  mill  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river." 

"  It  looks  beautiful  even  in  the  dark." 

"  I  live  at  Mile  End,  the  other  side  of  the  railway.  So 
I  can  show  you  home  to  Station  Road  as  I  go." 

"  Do  they  expect  you  at  home?  " 

"  Yes  —  some  time.  I  go  and  come.  I  live  with  my 
uncle  —  a  gardener  at  Ambrose's.     I  keep  house  for  him." 

"  Come  to  my  lodgings  and  have  some  supper  with  me," 
suggested  Mrs.  Brown.  "  It's  nice  to  know  one  person 
here.  You  say  you'll  be  my  friend.  Come  and  calm 
down,  and  tell  me  about  Colchester." 

"  D'you  mean  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  do  come." 

"  This  has  been  an  unreal  sort  of  day  for  me,"  mur- 
mured the  girl.     "  I  feel  as  if  I  was  dreaming." 

"  I  know  just  how  you  feel.  We  all  have  dream  days 
like  that.  Come  and  eat  some  bread  and  cheese  and  bis- 
cuits with  me,  and  wake  up  before  you  go  home." 

"  You've  done  a  big  thing,  I  suppose,"  answered  Mar- 
gery, but  her  voice  was  heavy  and  grudging. 

"  It's  you  who've  done  the  big  thing.  Forget  the  night- 
mare part  of  the  dream,  and  forget  yourself  by  being  kind 
to  me.  Life's  going  to  be  all  right  for  you.  I  know  it  — 
something  tells  me  so.  I  never  make  a  mistake  about 
people." 

The  other  showed  a  spark  of  perception. 


AT  HYTHE  9 

"  I  don't  know  so  much  about  that.  You  wouldn't  have 
no  friends  in  the  world,  a  lovely  piece  like  you,  if  you  never 
made  mistakes  about  people,"  she  said. 

The  widow  laughed  rather  mournfully. 

"  Perhaps  it's  because  people  make  mistakes  about  me," 
she  answered. 

For  some  time  neither  spoke  again.  They  ascended 
from  Colne  at  the  bridge  below  North  Street,  turned  to  the 
right  and  proceeded  to  the  station. 

"  To  think  what  a  day  may  bring  forth,"  said  the  girl 
suddenly. 

"  Are  you  coming  to  supper  with  me?  " 

*'  I'll  come  if  you  aren't  ashamed  of  me," 

"  And  who  am  I  to  be  ashamed  of  anybody  ?  And 
you're  going  to  be  my  friend,  remember.  You  don't  know 
half  that  means  to  me." 

They  reached  Station  Road  and  entered  a  little  house 
together. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE    WATER    GARDEN 

AvELiNE  walked  early  next  morning  along  the  river-side, 
to  see  in  daylight  what  she  had  passed  by  with  Margery 
on  the  previous  night.  Everything  was  strange  and  inter- 
esting and  beautiful.  She  longed  to  begin  painting  at 
once.  Under  the  bat  willows,  that  rose  in  an  avenue  beside 
the  water,  morning  light  flashed  on  the  stream,  and  the 
arrowy  foliage  of  the  trees  sparkled  and  twinkled.  Other 
willows  flourished  on  the  opposite  bank  of  Colne,  and  swans 
swam  upon  the  river,  where  it  broadened  into  a  reach 
bright  with  sunshine  above  the  mill  pool. 

The  artist's  purpose  was  to  find  a  picture  and  study  it 
under  early  light. 

Now  she  found  what  she  wanted,  and,  stepping  back- 
wards, nearly  trod  upon  a  man.  He  was  lying  on  a  sack 
in  the  grass,  and  by  him,  upon  a  big  canvas  bag,  there  sat 
a  woman.  They  had  been  watching  Aveline's  actions  and 
speculating  upon  them.  Both  man  and  woman  were  some- 
what extraordinary  figures,  and  both  smoked  pipes.  The 
woman  bore  the  marks  of  beauty  in  ruins.  She  might 
have  been  forty-five,  and  was  tanned  a  brick  red  by  ex- 
posure. Her  eyes  were  bright  and  of  the  darkest  brown ; 
on  her  head  she  wore  a  bedraggled  hat,  with  one  great 
turkey  feather  set  bolt  upright  upon  it ;  her  hair  was  cut 
short  and  her  thin  bosom  was  buttoned  up  in  an  old  Nor- 
folk jacket.  Her  dress,  of  withered  brown,  ended  in  a 
fringe  of  rags ;  but  her  boots  were  new  and  sound.  Her 
companion  appeared  rather  better  dressed.  He  had  a 
round,  unhealthy  face,  with  a  thin  beard  and  moustache. 
His  eyes  were  dim  and  bleared. 

10 


THE  WATER  GARDEN  11 

"  If  I'm  in  the  way,  say  so,"  said  the  man,  as  Aveline 
nearly  fell  backwards  over  him.  She  apologised,  and  he 
laughed. 

"  Me  and  Emma  was  wondering  what  you  were  up  to." 

"  I'm  going  to  paint  a  picture." 

"  Why.'*  "  asked  the  man. 

"  I  live  by  it." 

"  Can't  say  as  I've  seen  you  before,  have  you,  Emma?  " 

"  No,  for  certain,"  answered  the  woman. 

*'  I'm  a  new-comer  to  Colchester." 

"  That  accounts  for  it.  We're  very  well  known  — 
famous,  in  fact,"  explained  Emma. 

"  But  our  liking  for  fresh  air  and  objection  to  what  they 
call  '  honest  toil '  make  us  people  apart,"  drawled  the  man. 
"  I'm  William  Ambrose,  and  she's  Emma  Darcy,  better 
known  as  '  jMarmalade  Emma,'  owing  to  a  misunderstand- 
ing at  a  grocer's." 

"  There  was  three  of  us  once,"  said  the  woman,  in  a  deep, 
pleasant  voice.  "  Me  and  Billy  and  Captain  Slasher. 
Above  all  law  and  order,  you  understand,  and  lived  to- 
gether and  tramped  together.  Well  known  throughout 
the  Tendring  Hundred  for  our  fearless  opinions  and  that. 
We  live  from  day  to  day,  and  the  morrow  don't  fright  us 
more  than  it  does  a  bird.  Do  it,  Billy.''  We  don't  know 
the  least  mite  what's  going  to  come  of  us  to-morrow;  and 
we  don't  care." 

"  It  was  because  Cap'n  Slasher  fell  away  from  that, 
that  trouble  overtook  him,"  said  Billy.  "  We  got  on  very 
well  for  a  bit  and  shared  everything  that  come  along ;  but 
then  he  grew  impatient  and  started  making  money." 

"  Would  sing,"  explained  Emma.  "  He'd  walk  down  the 
middle  of  the  street  through  the  housen  and  sing  for 
pence." 

"  He'd  howl  that  dismal,  cowardly  hymn  —  you  know 
— *  Rock  of  Ages  cleft  for  me.  Let  me  hide  myself  in  Thee.' 
A  mean-spirited  bit  of  nonsense,  in  my  opinion.  Who 
the  devil  wants  to  hide  in  somebody  else.''     A  song  for 


12  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

slackers,  I  call  it.  And  he  sang  it  once  too  often,  and  he 
got  it  in  the  neck  at  last,  yelping  down  St.  Paul's  Road. 
A  few  unknown  men  set  on  the  Cap'n  and  left  him  sense- 
less in  the  dark  of  a  winter's  evening." 

"  We  were  willing  to  take  him  back  when  he  came  out  of 
orspital,"  continued  Emma ;  "  but  goodstruth !  '  Never 
again,'  he  says,  *  I'm  fed  up  with  Colchester.'  So  he  van- 
ished away.  I  missed  him  more'n  what  Bill  did.  I  nilly 
cried  my  eyes  out  for  him.  In  fact,  I  made  Billy  jealous, 
didn't  I,  Bill?" 

"  Jealous  I  never  was  and  never  could  be,"  answered 
Mr.  Ambrose. 

Aveline  sat  on  a  wooden  seat  close  to  this  singular  pair. 
They  were  quite  willing  to  talk,  and  both  smoked  while 
they  did  so. 

"  If  you're  a  stranger  here,  you'll  find  that  we  are  a 
law-ridden  and  a  parson-ridden  town,"  said  the  man. 
*'  If  I  could  work,  which  I  can't,  I'd  try  to  show  people  that 
the  days  for  all  this  driving  and  harrying  and  bullying 
are  past.  Under  socialism  there  is  a  complete  change 
coming,  and  we  shall  look  at  things  and  people  as  they 
really  are  —  not  as  their  cash  makes  'em  appear.  The 
way  we  live  now  three-quarters  of  the  people  are  handi- 
capped to  hell  from  the  minute  they're  born,  and  the  other 
quarter  get  the  lot,  on  the  strength  of  being  their  father's 
sons.  Property  is  the  idea  that  wrecks  England.  Take 
apples,  for  example." 

"  We  take  enough  of  them,  anyway,"  said  Emma. 

"  Very  well  then.  Here's  a  hedge  and  here's  an  apple 
tree,  and  Nature  looks  after  it.  She  don't  care  a  damn 
who  planted  the  tree,  any  more  than  she  cares  who  planted 
the  grass  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  or  who  planted  the  corn 
on  the  other  side  of  the  hedge.  She  looks  after  the  tree 
for  the  community  —  birds  and  squirrels  and  mice,  and 
Emma  and  me,  included.  And  when  we  get  to  understand 
that  Nature  works  for  the  community  and  not  the  indi- 
vidual, there's  no  doubt  we  shall  begin  to  see  light." 


THE  WATER  GARDEN  13 

"  But  Nature  does  work ;  so  why  shouldn't  you?  "  aslied 
Aveline. 

"  A  mean  question,  and  easily  answered.  But  for  the 
minute  I'm  talking  about  apples.  Well,  there's  the  tree 
covered  with  the  fruits  of  the  earth  —  the  earth,  mind 
you  —  and  I,  that  live  by  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  hold 
views  that  make  me  feel  I've  as  much  right  to  the  apples 
as  the  man  who  says  there're  his,  or  the  king  on  his  throne 
for  that  matter.  So  I  take  them  in  no  unreasonable  and 
small  spirit.  The  unreasonable  man  would  take  more 
than  his  share,  with  an  eye  to  selling  again,  which  is  what 
I  call  dishonest;  and  the  poor-spirited  man  would  palter 
with  them  and  ver}^  like  only  pick  up  the  windfalls,  and  so 
quiet  a  bad  conscience.  Not  so  me  and  Emma.  We've 
got  no  conscience,  bad  or  otherwise.  So  we  take,  say,  a 
dozen  of  the  best,  having  first  sampled  a  few  to  see  the  tree 
ain't  cheating  us  —  for  the  outside  is  often  as  false  in 
apples  as  in  humans.  Then  we  go  on  our  wa}',  at  peace 
with  God  and  man.  If  the  thing's  brought  home  and  man 
isn't  at  peace  with  us,  we  bend  to  force.  A  blind  gener- 
ation has  often  interfered  with  the  freedom  of  my  body  — 
never  with  the  freedom  of  my  mind." 

"  He's  been  locked  up  seven  times,"  said  Emma. 

The  heart  of  the  artist  went  out  to  these  people.  She 
had  large  sympathy  with  the  egregious,  and  their  isola- 
tion awoke  hidden  instincts. 

*'  But  what  about  work  ?  "  she  asked.  "  I  know  everj^- 
thing's  all  wrong,  but  why  don't  you  try  to  set  it  right?  " 

"  I've  not  got  the  powers  for  preaching.  I'm  a  living 
protest  —  so's  Marmalade  Emma.  Some  women  would  be 
ashamed  of  that  nickname,  seeing  how  she  came  by  it. 
But  she's  not.  A  pot  of  marmalade,  traced  back  to  its 
foundationals  just  the  same  as  an  apple,  or  pear,  or  peck 
of  corn.  And  when  3'ou  sa^^  '  work,'  you  must  remember 
that  Nature  makes  us  all  different  —  some  to  work,  some 
to  wander,  some  to  dream  dreams.  Let  them  that  are 
called  to  work  do  their  work.     I  never  stood  between  a 


14  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

inan  and  a  bit  of  work  in  my  life,  and  never  shall.  The 
drones  do  their  proper  work,  as  well  as  the  bees,  and  Ave 
must  have  variet}',  and  respect  each  man's  nature.  Work 
by  all  means,  I  don't  prevent  it ;  but  as  I'm  bom  to  play, 
it's  your  right  and  duty  to  respect  my  birthright  and  let 
me  play.  In  fact,  pushed  home,  you  ought  to  help  me  to 
play,  not  hinder  me.  It's  every  man's  duty  to  help  the 
destiny  of  every  other.  Take  Emma's  brother.  He's  a 
freeman  of  Brittlesea  ^ —  a  man  of  the  sea,  with  his  right 
in  the  oyster  fisheries.  A  glutton  for  work,  and  engaged 
on  the  Fishery  Company's  steamer.  Peewit.  Well,  did  I 
ever  come  between  him  and  his  labours?  And  yet,  when 
winter  overtakes  us,  and  Emma,  who  is  his  only  relation 
worth  being  proud  of,  comes  down  on  him  for  a  room  to 
cover  us  of  a  night  till  the  spring  returns,  do  you  think 
he  welcomes  us  gladly?  Not  at  all.  Thomas  Darcy  is  as 
ignorant  a  man,  for  all  I've  known  him  ten  years,  as  any 
man  living.  My  own  brother  hasn't  got  less  sense  as  to 
what  the  community  owes  the  non-workers." 

"  Have  you  got  a  brother?  "  asked  the  listener. 

Emma  pointed  behind  them,  where  a  black  fence  ran. 
Above  it,  on  a  white  board,  twenty  feet  long,  was  written 
in  red  and  gold  a  single  name  — 

"AUBREY  PARKYN  AIMBROSE, 

CoLNESiDE  Gardens  " 

"  That's  his  brother,"  she  said.  "  He's  the  biggest  nurs- 
eryman in  Colchester.  Worth  hundreds  of  thousands,  I 
dare  say  —  and  the  Mayor  of  Colchester  this  year  in  the 
bargain." 

"  I'm  the  thorn  in  his  flesh,"  declared  the  tramp. 
"  He's  offered  me  two  hundred  pounds  per  annum  in  quar- 
terly payments,  if  I'll  leave  the  country.  When  I  see  him 
swelling  by,  I  say,  *  But  for  the  grace  of  God,  there  goes 
Billy  Ambrose ! '     Poor  soul,  I  could  rise  to  pity  him,  if 

1  Brittlesea  =  Brightlingsea. 


THE  WATER  GARDEN  15 

he  wasn't  such  a  good  and  model  type  of  man.  You  can 
judge  of  people  entirely  by  their  attitude  to  my  brother, 
Parkyn.  Them  that  admire  him  are  no  friends  of  mine; 
but  for  such  as  hate  him  by  natural  instinct  and  proper 
feeling,  there's  hope." 

The  artist  h-ad  been  considering  Emma's  strong  features 
and  remarkable  hat. 

"  I  wonder  if  you'd  let  me  paint  you.^  "  she  asked,  "  just 
as  you  are." 

"  Just  as  I  am,  without  one  flea,"  said  Emma,  and 
William  roared. 

*'  You've  never  heard  a  woman  make  a  joke  like  that,  I'll 
bet.^  "  he  asked. 

"  I  never  did,"  confessed  Aveline ;  "  but  let  me  paint  her 
- —  here,  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow's  an  unknown  quantity  with  me  and 
Emma,"  explained  INIr.  Ambrose.  "  You'll  never  catch  us 
committing  ourselves  to  to-morrow.  '  Never  trust  to- 
morrow,' is  a  wise  saying  invented  by  me.  To-morrow 
we  may  be  here,  or  at  Brittlesea,  or  Mersea  Island,  or 
Jericho." 

"  In  fact,  we're  like  the  hares  and  pheasants,"  declared 
Emma.  "  If  you  want  us,  you've  got  to  hunt  us ;  and 
because  you  hunt  us,  it  don't  follow  by  any  means  you'll 
catch  us,  do  it,  Billy.''  " 

"  We  have  our  haunts  and  holts,  like  the  natural  crea- 
tures we  claim  to  be,"  said  William  Ambrose.  "  However, 
you'll  very  likely  see  us  about.  We  circle  round  Colches- 
ter, like  the  moon  circles  round  the  earth." 

"  Will  you  accept  a  little  momento  of  our  meeting, 
then.?" 

"  In  the  same  spirit  as  you  give,  we'll  accept,"  promised 
Emma.     "  We  like  you,  don't  we,  Billy  .'*  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man,  "  you're  a  lovely  bit,  for  all  your 
silly,  black  weeds ;  and  the  chap  who  died  and  had  to 
leave  you  behind  was  unluck}^  We  don't  thank  you  for 
this  half-crown.     We  take  it  as  the  fair  return  for  our 


16  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

friendship,  which  is  j^ours  in  future.  Now  we  must  get  on 
the  war-path,  Emma." 

"  Can  I  walk  in  the  gardens  over  there?  "  asked  Aveline. 

"  Most  certainly.  My  brother  opens  them  to  the  pub- 
lic. I  go  in  myself  when  I  feel  like  it.  Sometimes,  if  I 
want  to  reward  one  of  the  right  sort,  I  go  in  by  night  and 
lift  a  valuable  plant,  and  cover  myself  with  glory.  Mind 
you  go  and  look  at  the  larkspurs.  To  the  understanding 
eye,  they're  a  sermon.  Not  that  flowers  ever  preach  any- 
thing but  cash  to  my  poor  brother." 

"  He  preaches  to  them  more  like,"  said  Emma. 

"  No,  my  beautiful  girl,"  answered  Billy.  "  The  flowers 
have  got  nothing  to  learn  from  Parkyn  Ambrose.  The 
flowers  teach :  they're  far  above  learning.  To  sell  flowers, 
in  my  opinion,  is  very  nearly  as  bad  as  keeping  a  slave 
market.  His  nursery's  a  prison,  and  I  for  one  shall 
alwa^'s  break  in  and  rescue  a  plant  now  and  again,  when 
I'm  in  the  mind  to  do  so.  You  see  he  lives  by  them,  and 
yet  here  am  I,  that  have  forgot  more  about  flowers  than 
ever  he  knew,  poor  soul." 

William  shouldered  the  sack,  and  waved  his  hand  to 
Aveline.  Then  he  went  forward  with  Marmalade  Emma 
paddling  in  his  wake;  while,  laughing  to  herself  and  the 
happier  for  this  venture,  the  artist  walked  by  the  river, 
presently  found  a  gate  that  opened  into  the  enclosures  and 
entered  them. 

The  immense  nurseries  extended  as  far  as  she  could  see ; 
but  close  at  hand,  in  the  lap  of  Colne,  stretched  a  water 
garden,  perhaps  the  fairest  in  all  England.  A  great 
weeping  willow  hung  over  the  way,  and  its  bright  tresses 
had  been  cut  into  an  arch  where  the  path  ran  under  it. 
Now  Aveline  passed  through  this  golden  tunnel  and  stood 
before  a  lake. 

The  water  lily  ponds  were  spread  in  a  place  of  cool 
green  and  whispering  boughs.  Willow  folk  made  the 
dominant  decoration  and  broke  the  contours  of  the  banks 
with  domes  and  canopies  of  grey  and  green.     Here  they 


THE  WATER  GARDEN  17 

sparkled  with  white  fire  where  the  breezes  lifted  their 
leaves ;  here  they  fell  like  fountains  and  trailed  their  deli- 
cate boughs  in  the  water.  With  them  the  fern-leaved 
alder  sprang,  and  behind  them  towered  a  row  of  poplars, 
that  marked  the  river  banks  beyond. 

The  lake  itself  was  led  with  art  into  its  appointed 
form.  Little  headlands  gave  upon  it  and  offered  a  new 
picture  at  each  turn,  yet  preserved  the  restful  distinction 
of  the  whole.  The  fingers  of  the  water  islanded  many  a 
fine  mass  of  riparian  things,  and  rush  and  sedge,  bamboo 
and  flowering  grasses  were  broken  deftly  in  their  masses 
and  brightened  and  lightened  by  a  thousand  flowers. 

First  came  the  legions  of  the  meadowsweets,  from  white 
to  cream,  from  palest  pink  to  red.  With  plumes  and 
spires  they  nodded  and  swayed  in  their  drifts  along  the 
water  side ;  and  some  drooped  their  blossom  sprays  and 
some  rose  stiffly  together  and  drove  a  fine,  upright  pattern 
into  the  graceful  tangles  of  the  grasses.  The  great  and 
lesser  reed-mace  similarly  sprang  upward,  and  with  their 
black  velvet  spears  brought  symmetry  and  strength  into 
all  the  yielding  lines  from  which  they  rose.  Giant  rhu- 
barbs lifted  their  red  flower-stalks  half  as  high  as  the  wil- 
low trees,  and  inflorescence  still  touched  their  branches 
with  sparks  of  russet.  Beneath  them  a  thousand  plume 
poppies  feathered  together  above  their  glaucous  leaves  and 
swayed  their  delicate  flower  pannicles  in  a  warm  mist  of 
amber  light,  that  deepened  into  rose  where  a  drift  of 
willow-herb  spread  beyond.  At  one  island  salient  stood 
a  prickly  rhubarb  with  foliage  crinkled  and  vast,  each 
leaf  the  green  sky  of  a  little  world  spread  under  it,  and 
beside  these  noble  plants  throve  water  gladiolus,  with 
umbels  of  pale  pink,  and  pickerel  weed,  flashing  sky-blue 
flowers  among  its  arrowy  leaves.  At  hand  the  true  arrow- 
leaf  lifted  many  blossoms  among  its  lance-shaped  foliage, 
and  the  whorls  of  white  flowers,  each  triple-petalled  with 
a  knot  of  gold,  rose  one  above  another  to  break  the  lines 
of  a  peninsula  that  stretched  out  into  the  water  behind 


18  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

them.  Many  fair  grasses  also  ventured  daintily  into  the 
water,  and  gleaming  glycera  and  blades  of  sweet  acorus 
stood  forth  among  the  shallows.  Above  them  a  New 
Zealand  flax,  its  swords  slashed  with  silver,  cast  a  bright 
reflection  upon  the  lake,  and  the  zebra-rush  lifted  striped 
sheaves  beneath  it.  But  all  this  brightness  was  cunningly 
disposed  to  break  up  heavier  masses  of  foliage  and  lend 
vitality  and  leaping  joy  to  the  bank  side.  Life  twinkled 
starry  everywhere,  and  the  flow^er-light,  now  high,  now  low, 
ran  in  a  rainbow  over  the  clouds  of  summer  green.  Great 
plantain  lilies  lifted  their  lavender  spikes  above  their  deep- 
ribbed  leaves  and  brought  back  a  memory  of  the  wistarias 
that  had  hung  their  purple  over  the  water  in  spring ;  but 
the  true  lilies  were  nearly  all  sped,  and  only  a  leopard  lily 
or  two  still  opened  his  scarlet  and  ebony-spotted  bells  in 
the  jungle  at  water  side.  The  last  of  the  water  irises  still 
opened  patines  of  opal  and  dull  crimson  above  their  green 
swords ;  but  the  globe  flowers  and  primroses  were  gone ; 
the  fairy  lacework  of  the  bog-bean  had  vanished ;  the  white 
stars  of  American  mandrakes  had  given  place  to  heavy 
scarlet  fruits,  and  the  baneberries  were  clad  with  a  blood- 
red  harvest. 

For  summer  days  were  glowing,  and  the  sun-bright 
colours  began  to  enrich  each  dingle  with  lemon  and  orange. 
Hues  so  vivid  demanded  skill  for  their  planting  and  fore- 
sight for  their  values  on  the  mass ;  but  experience  and 
understanding  had  ordered  their  mingled  tones  and  bal- 
anced their  assertive  splendours.  The  ragwort's  flame 
mingled  with  dim  red  burnets ;  the  giant  buttercups  lifted 
their  constellations  in  a  setting  of  sombre  green;  the  sky- 
blue  lyme  grass  was  ablaze  with  invasion  of  monkey  flowers, 
orange  and  pink;  and  the  yellow  loosestrife  maosed  nobly 
with  the  purple.  Early  meadowsweets  had  set  a  bank  of 
rufous  seed-heads  that  blended  with  other  yellow  blos- 
soms, and  spartina's  nodding  plumes  and  spikelets  of  gold 
fell   about   forget-me-nots  gathered  at  her   feet.     Away 


THE  WATER  GARDEN  19 

beyond,  the  companies  of  a  giant  groundsel  sprang  like 
fire  against  a  verdurous  bank  and  lighted  the  darkness  of 
many  a  shady  nook.  Eight  feet  high  they  towered  to  fill 
their  place  in  the  middle  distance  with  a  glow  of  flame; 
while  other  ragworts  of  orange-red  burned  like  sunset 
beyond.  Their  masses  were  nearly  hidden,  but  they  blazed 
through  the  receding  green  and  led  the  sight  to  other  inlets 
and  estuaries  of  the  lake,  where  rose  the  mighty  parsnip 
of  Hercules,  with  snowy  umbels ;  the  rose-bright  heads  of 
giant  agrimonies,  and  the  pale  mauve  stars  of  mulgediums, 
that  towered  beside  them. 

A  ray,  cast  from  moon-coloured  blossoms  In  a  dingle, 
rested  Aveline's  eyes  a  little,  and  while  she  looked  at  their 
lemon  crests,  she  dreamed  a  hundred  pictures ;  but  the 
planning  of  them  brought  her  down  to  the  lake  itself  and 
the  water  lilies  that  sparkled  at  her  feet. 

Bright  as  the  jewelly  dragon-flies  that  danced  there,  the 
lilies  floated  in  their  proper  companies  and  echoed  the 
harmonies  of  the  meadowsweets.  But  their  colour  ranged 
beyond :  their  whiteness  was  more  silvery  and  sparkling ; 
their  redness  was  of  a  grander  lustre ;  their  pinkness  was 
more  pure  than  the  spiraeas.  They  deepened  through  pale 
canary  yellow  to  a  crimson  splendour,  where  no  flower 
upon  the  banks  could  follow  them.  From  the  green  and 
mottled  discs  of  leaves  overlapping  on  the  clear  water, 
there  sprang  the  flowers,  snow-white  and  shell-pink,  blush 
rose  and  amaranth  and  ruby.  Their  petals,  held  together 
with  brooches  of  wrought  gold,  were  of  that  pearly  texture 
that  only  water  lilies  know ;  their  forms  were  stars  that 
expanded  and  cups  that  curved. 

Aveline  heard  footsteps  behind  her  and,  looking  round, 
observed  a  man.  He  wore  grey  tweeds,  with  knicker- 
bockers, and  walked  briskly.  He  was  tall  and  well  set  up. 
His  brown  face  and  clear  grey  eyes  gave  a  look  of  health 
and  strength  to  his  countenance.  His  hair  was  black  and 
rather  long,  and  he  wore  a  heavy  moustache,  which  con- 


20  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

ccaled  the  lines  of  his  mouth.  He  walked  close  to  the 
visitor,  and  when  he  had  passed  her,  glanced  round  to  see 
her  face. 

It  was  Aveline  who  spoke. 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  trespassing?  "  she  said. 

Then  the  young  man  stopped,  raised  his  cap  and  an- 
swered — 

"  Oh,  no ;  the  gardens  are  free  to  the  public  most  part  of 
the  day." 

"  This  is  perfect.  But  only  an  artist  could  know  how 
perfect." 

"  Are  you  an  artist?  " 

"  A  painter,  and  an  artist,  too,  I  hope." 

He  nodded.  Her  frank  manner  set  him  at  ease,  though 
her  rare  good  looks  made  him  careful. 

"  This  is  my  water  garden." 

"  Then  you're  Mr.  Ambrose,  I  suppose?  " 

"  No.  I'm  an  artist,  too,  in  my  way  —  one  of  his  de- 
signers. It's  my  water  garden  only  in  the  sense  that  I 
planned  it." 

"  You  made  all  this  loveliness  ?  " 

"  Not  that  either.  Colne  river  made  it.  I  sketched  the 
picture  and  brought  the  plants  together,  and  Nature  and 
Colne  painted  it." 

*'  You  can't  escape  the  responsibility  like  that,"  she  said 
lightly. 

The  man  spoke  again,  for  her  pleasant  voice  and  cheer- 
ful manner  offered  a  contrast  to  her  widow's  weeds  and 
interested  him. 

"  People  despair  of  getting  garden  beauty  out  of  the 
flat,"  he  said,  "  so  they  dig  holes  and  fling  up  mounds  and 
try  to  be  what  they  call  '  natural.'  As  though  a  level 
meadow  is  not  as  natural  as  a  hillside.  But  given  water, 
you  can  do  this  sort  of  thing  only  on  the  flat." 

"  I  understand." 

"  Being  an  artist,  I  dare  say  you  hate  everj'thing  for- 
mal," he  said.     "  But  I'm  a  formalist ;  so's  Mr.  Ambrose. 


THE  WATER  GARDEN  21 

We're  spreading  the  cult  of  the  formal  garden  —  a  thing 
proceeding  by  just  laws  out  of  the  dwelling-house,  and  not 
wholly  independent  of  it." 

"  I  believe  in  form.  ■  All  good  art  is  founded  on  form ; 
but  forms  change.  Things  that  are  thought  formless 
to-day  will  be  voted  too  formal  to-morrow." 

To  hear  a  woman  speak  thus  surprised  the  designer. 

"  You've  thought  about  it,"  he  said,  but  she  did  not 
answer. 

"  How  lovely  it  would  be  to  see  the  moonlight  on  them," 
she  remarked  a  moment  later,  looking  down  at  the  water 
lilies. 

"  They  shut  up  at  night,"  he  answered ;  then  he  knelt 
at  the  water's  edge,  stretched  forward,  dipped  his  hand 
under  the  water  and  plucked  a  gorgeous  crimson  blossom 
of  great  size.  In  the  midst  of  its  star  was  a  red  gold 
heart. 

"  D'you  see  how  the  dye  of  the  petals  runs  over  into  the 
yellow  anthers  and  stains  them  ruby.''  That's  a  dead 
man's  work  —  Marliac's  masterpiece." 

"  You  have  taken  the  queen  off  her  throne,"  said  Aveline. 

"  A  hybrid  —  the  very  best  water  lily  in  the  world." 

He  dried  the  stalk  as  he  spoke  and  handed  the  flower  to 
her. 

"  What  a  noble  thing !  May  one  sketch  here,  or  is  that 
asking  too  much?  " 

"  By  all  means,  if  you  wish  to." 

"  I'd  love  to  try  this  lakelet ;  but  I  expect  it  would  beat 
me,"  she  confessed.  "  D'you  know  the  underlying  colour 
in  it.''  But  you  made  it,  so  no  doubt  you  do.  It's  gold. 
You  feel  it  more  than  you  see  it,  but  it's  everywhere  — 
soaking  everything.  It  can't  contain  itself.  It  actually 
flashes  out  on  a  dead  water  lily  leaf,  or  the  edge  of  a  reed, 
or  in  those  warm,  cloudy  masses  of  plume  poppy  beyond ; 
but  the  green  is  full  of  it,  too ;  it  warms  every  colour  — 
whites  and  purples  and  everything  —  to  the  ripening  seed- 
heads  and  flying  cotton  from  the  willow-herbs." 


ii'Z  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  A  painter  would  have  to  remember  the  gold,  or  he'd 
make  it  cold  and  chilly  and  untrue,  I  suppose,"  said  the 
man.  "  Turner  painted  Colchester  from  these  meadows 
once  upon  a  time.  There  was  no  water  garden  then, 
though." 

"  There's  gold  in  all  he  ever  painted,"  she  said. 
He  hesitated  and  was  about  to  go. 

"  Am  I  to  keep  this.?  "  she  asked,  lifting  the  great  lily 
still  in  her  hand. 

"  Please  do ;  and  —  and  —  if  you  care  for  this  sort  of 
thing  —  garden  planning,  I  mean  —  perhaps  some  day 
you'd  like  to  come  to  the  studio  and  see  some  odds  and 
ends." 

"  How  good  of  you !     Of  course  I  should." 
"  Any  time.     I'm  generally  there ;  and  if  I'm  not,  my 
colleague  is.     But  ask  for  me  —  Peter  Mistley." 
"  I'll  gladly  come." 

"  Not  your  art,  you  know.     But  mine." 
*'  By  the  way,  this  is  '  Colneside,'  isn't  it.''  " 
"  Yes  — '  Colneside  Gardens.'  " 

"  I  know  a  girl  who  works  here  —  Margery  Mayhew." 
"  A  typewriter  —  yes.     D'you  know  her  well.'*  " 
"  Pretty  well.     I'm  so  sorry  about  her." 
"  She  and  Hempson  ?     She'll  get  over  it." 
Aveline  pretended  that  she  knew  as  much  as  Mr.  Mistley. 
"  Of  course.     I  expect  she  dreamed  it,  poor  little  thing." 
"  No ;  I  think  not.     Hempson  is  one  of  the  best.     A  real 
good  chap.     You  won't  mention  it  to  her,  of  course.     But 
he  was  very  much  in  love  with  her  and  meant  to  ask  her  to 
marry  him  after  he  came  back  from  China." 
"  Why  didn't  he  ask  her  before  he  went?  " 
"  Because  there  was  a  chance  he  might  not  come  back. 
A  good  deal  of  danger  attaches  to  seed  collecting  in  these 
out-of-the-way  places.     As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  did  have  a 
squeak  of  his  life.     He  came  back  from  China  in  the  spring. 
Out  there  he  was  doing  well  in  the  hills  and  breaking  new 
ground.     The  people  seemed  friendly  enough;  but  he  got 


THE  WATER  GARDEN  23 

into  a  tight  corner  and  wasn't  too  diplomatic  with  them,  I 
suppose.  Too  EngHsh,  or  insular.  Didn't  respect  their 
manners  and  customs  enough.  Anyway  they  fell  out  with 
him  and  they  attacked  him  and  his  party  and  destroyed 
a  dozen  cases  of  plants  he  had  collected.  One  man  was 
killed,  but  Hempson  and  the  rest  escaped.  There's  a  little 
romance  in  the  matter;  perhaps  Miss  Mayhew  told  you.''  " 

"  Only  her  own  romance.'* 

"  Poor  Hempson  carried  one  poppy  seed  in  his  hand  for 
three  days  —  a  sacred  poppy  or  something  that  he  had 
heard  was  a  marvel.  For  three  days  and  nights  he  clung 
to  that  capsule,  saved  it,  and  brought  it  home.  It's  just 
flowered  —  a  worthless  weed.  Sacred,  perhaps,  but  its 
sanctity  won't  save  it." 

Aveline  was  silent,  speculating  on  the  misfortunes  of  the 
plant-collector.  Her  natural  bent  of  mind  decided  her 
reply. 

"  He'll  have  some  splendid  good  luck  next  time  —  to 
make  up." 

"  Doubtful  if  there'll  be  a  next  time.  He  may  not  get  a 
commission  abroad  again  —  certainly  not  till  after  the 
war." 

They  parted  then,  and  Peter  Mistley  said  good-bye  and 
went  up  the  gardens. 

When  he  was  gone,  Aveline  thought  about  him,  rather 
liked  him,  and  wondered  if  he  were  married.  She  decided 
that  he  was  a  sort  of  man  who  would  be.  Then  she  con- 
sidered "  Marmalade  Emma  "  and  William,  and  laughed 
gently.  Whatever  her  recent  griefs,  the  young  woman 
appeared  full  of  a  joy  of  life  that  could  not  long  or 
patiently  regard  them. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE    STUDIO 

There  are  two  orders  of  human  beings  who  lack  power  of 
self-expression:  those  who  neither  know  the  need  nor  feel 
it  —  the  bulk  of  mankind  —  and  those  who  are  aware  of 
the  lack  and  in  consequence  suffer.  To  these  latter  be- 
longed Peter  Mistley.  He  was  not,  however,  to  be  pitied 
as  much  as  he  pitied  himself,  for  while  his  tongue  was  slow, 
his  hand  was  swift.  He  possessed  his  art,  and  through 
that  medium  made  himself  known  and  valued.  As  an  ar- 
chitectural gardener  he  had  won  no  small  fame,  and 
though  he  worked  anonymously  for  another  and  his 
achievements  went  to  the  credit  of  the  firm  of  Ambrose,  yet 
he  was  well  known  in  horticultural  circles,  and  his  opinions 
commanded  respect  beyond  his  own  country.  Art  sweet- 
ened his  life  and  filled  it,  yet  he  escaped  not  the  com- 
mon lot  of  a  discontented  mind,  and  his  grievance  with 
fate  centred  in  this :  that  people  preferred  his  art  to  him- 
self. His  brusque  manner  alone  accounted  for  it ;  but  he 
felt  himself  not  really  ungracious  and,  though  now  accus- 
tomed to  the  experience,  continued  to  regret  the  coldness 
of  mankind.  People  were  agreeable  and  amiable  while  he 
worked  for  them ;  but  his  accomplishments  made  no  friends. 
When  a  garden  was  finished,  those  for  whom  he  made  it 
forgot  the  artist  and  generally  took  the  applause  to  their 
credit. 

As  a  youth  he  had  been  morbid  and  rather  absurd  in  his 
exactions ;  now  he  was  thirty-two  and  growing  more  sen- 
sible. He  began  to  perceive  his  own  limitations  with 
greater  patience  and  concede  a  charm  to  others  which  was 
beyond  his  power  to  imitate.     But  he  grew  less  self-con- 

24 


THE  STUDIO  Z5 

scious,  and  cultivated  the  doing  of  kind  acts  and  the  saying 
of  kind  words.  He  suffered  much  at  the  missing  of  many 
opportunities,  but  that  he  saw  the  opportunities  argued 
his  heart ;  that  he  missed  them  only  proved  the  obstinacy 
of  inherited  character  over  acquired  instincts.  To-day,  as 
he  returned  from  the  water  garden  to  his  workshop  at 
another  part  of  "  Colneside  "  nurseries,  he  felt  pleased  with 
himself.  For  he  had  spoken  freely  to  a  strange  woman; 
he  had  been  amiable,  and  won  from  her  smiles  and  given 
her  pleasure.  This  was  an  achievement  and  he  was  grati- 
fied at  himself. 

The  studio,  where  Mistley  and  another  worked  together, 
stood  near  the  packing  sheds  and  offices.  It  was  a  lofty 
chamber  with  sea-green  walls  and  white  rafters  support- 
ing an  open  roof.  High  windows  rose  above  the  drawing 
tables,  and  curtains  ran  across  them,  so  that  light  might 
be  modified  at  need.  Upon  the  walls  were  hung  a  hundred 
drawings,  great  and  small,  in  plan  and  elevation.  Some 
were  mere  notes ;  some  had  been  highly  finished  and  col- 
oured. They  represented  gardens  in  being,  or  yet  to  be. 
Here  were  studies  of  lakes  and  open  spaces  planned  for 
woodlands  and  the  massing  of  harmonious  trees  ;  here  were 
designs  for  landscape  work  and  rock  gardens  fasliioned  in 
the  natural  style.  For  IVIr.  Ambrose  considered  all  tastes, 
and  if  the  art  of  Peter  Mistley,  his  first  draughtsman,  was 
held  too  severe,  and  a  client  desired  some  achievement  in 
the  modern,  meandering  manner,  then  did  Geoffrey  Sea- 
brook  undertake  the  commission,  for  his  skill  ran  in  the 
direction  of  the  natural  garden.  Long  and  endless  were 
the  arguments  between  the  fellow-workers  —  sometimes 
good-tempered  and  amiable,  sometimes  tinged  with  acer- 
bity, according  to  the  elder  man's  mood.  For  it  was 
Peter  who  occasionally  lost  patience,  never  Mr.  Sea- 
brook.  He  was  also  a  bachelor,  of  delicate  build  and 
fair  complexion.  He  had  a  prett3^,  rather  than  a  hand- 
some, face,  was  verj'^  fair,  with  fine  eyes,  fine  teeth,  a  little 
roguish,  straw-coloured  moustache,  waxed  at  the  points, 


26  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

hair  flaxen-bright  with  a  natural  curl,  and  long,  amber 
eyelashes.  He  was  finely  turned  and,  in  secret,  prided  him- 
self upon  his  instep  and  his  ankles.  Of  a  bourgeois  family, 
he  dreamed  dreams  of  ancestors  unknown,  and  though  pre- 
senting a  humble  and  obsequious  exterior  —  a  slight  man 
in  the  estimation  of  his  colleagues  and  the  nursery  at  large 

—  in  his  heart  harboured  the  sense  of  power,  and  under  his 
humility  and  imperturbable  cheerfulness  there  dwelt  a 
secret  spirit  shared  and  adored  by  only  one  other  person  in 
the  world. 

He  was  a  lesser  artist  than  Mistley  and  proceeded  on  a 
lowlier  system. 

They  were  arguing  to-day  as  they  worked,  and  Peter,  for 
the  thousandth  time,  enunciated  his  principles. 

"  There's  one  right  and  proper  way  for  all  artists,"  he 
said,  "  and  that  is  to  go  to  the  theatre  of  a  creation  with 
an  empty  mind,  not  a  preoccupied  one.  You  always  in- 
vent a  beautiful  garden  from  pure  imagination,  then,  when 
you've  got  to  make  a  garden,  you  take  it  with  you  in  your 
head,  and,  whether  the  place  is  suited  to  it  or  not,  that's 
the  garden  you  make.  I  go  empty-minded,  and,  if  left 
alone,  which,  of  course,  I  seldom  am,  I  let  the  new  site,  with 
all  its  features  of  architecture  and  nature,  soak  into  me  for 
a  week  or  a  fortnight ;  and  so  my  garden  slowly  grows  up 

—  inspired  entirely  by  the  scene  it  is  to  occujjy." 

"  A  way  of  perfection,"  answered  Seabrook.  "  You 
know  that  nine  times  out  of  ten  it  don't  work,  and  that,  as 
a  rule,  what  you  think  fine,  the  people  who  have  to  live  with 
the  garden  probably  hate.  You  know  what  a  thing  ought 
to  be ;  I  know  what  the  average,  so-called  '  keen  gardener,' 
with  some  money  to  chuck  about,  likes.  And  if  you're  a 
shopman,  which  we  are,  the  thing  is  to  please  your  cus- 
tomer, not  yourself." 

"  You  are  a  shopman  and  you've  got  the  soul  of  a  shop- 
man," answered  Mistley.  "  And  so  you  take  the  goods 
in  your  pocket,  like  a  commercial  traveller,  and  have  no 
respect  for  places,  but  only  for  persons.     I  despise  persons 


THE  STUDIO  27 

and  venerate  places,  if  they  are  worthy  of  veneration. 
Why  should  we  mutilate  a  scene  and  prostitute  art  for  the 
sake  of  our  own  generation?  The  garden  goes  on,  but  the 
midgets  that  creep  about  in  it  go  off  and  die." 

"  And  so  do  we,"  said  Geoffrey,  laughing,  "  but  we've  got 
to  live  first."  He  had  a  cheerful  laugh,  like  the  sudden 
song  of  a  chaffinch. 

"  All  great  artists  reverence  place,"  said  the  other. 
"  Not  only  painters,  but  sculptors  and  novelists,  and  even 
musicians." 

"  Novehsts  don't,"  argued  Geoffrey  Seabrook.  "  The 
greatest  novelists  only  reverence  character  and  psychology 
and  all  that.  And  the  greatest  of  all  arts,  music,  is  above 
time  and  place  and  all  limitations.  It  defies  material 
bonds,  and  Beethoven  or  Wagner  will  be  just  as  good  in 
the  next  world  as  they  are  in  this  —  perhaps  better." 

He  spoke  with  animation,  for  he  was  a  musician  him- 
self, sang  well  and  loved  to  sing. 

"  You  are  a  far  greater  artist  than  I  am,"  he  went  on. 
"  I  know  that  well  enough.  What  beats  me  is  your  use 
of  the  material  of  living  things,  as  well  as  brick  and  stone 
and  statue  and  bridge,  and  iron  scrollwork  for  great  gates, 
and  so  on.  You're  a  magnificent,  unerring  colourist,  and 
you  manage  water  better  far  than  any  man  in  the  game." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mistley.  "  You  know  how  to 
praise.  People  demand  everything  at  once:  that's  the 
nuisance.  They  deny  time  its  work  and  want  to  see  raw 
stone  weathered  to  look  like  the  native  rock  in  a  week,  a 
cedar  tree  look  a  hundred  years  old  in  a  twelvemonth." 

"  We  must  suffer  fools  gladly,  since  we  mostly  live  by 
them,"  said  Seabrook.  "  Time  is  the  only  great  artist 
when  all's  said.  He  puts  the  master  touches  to  book  and 
picture  and  garden  —  always  assuming  there's  strength 
and  stuff  in  them  to  stand  his  hand." 

A  motor  hooted  outside  the  gardens  and  the  sound  was 
familiar.  They  continued  their  conversation,  and  ten 
minutes  later  Mr.  Ambrose  appeared. 


28  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  Good-morning,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  and  they  returned 
the  sakite.  Mistley  continued  his  plan  as  he  did  so,  but 
Seabrook  dropped  his  brush,  rose,  gave  a  little  bow  and 
then  sat  down  again. 

Aubrey  Parkyn  Ambrose  was  a  full-bodied,  handsome 
man  of  five-and-fifty.  His  clean-shaved  face  was  some- 
what round,  but  well  modelled  as  to  nose  and  chin;  his 
brow  rose  high  and  his  thick  hair  turned  towards  iron- 
grey.  He  had  large  brown  eyes  and  a  big  and  booming 
voice.  His  expression  never  changed.  It  presented  a 
steady  and  unalterable  intelligence  which  never  sank  to 
vacuity  and  never  sparkled  to  inspiration.  Like  his  voice, 
his  face  was  monotonous.  Neither  were  unkindly;  yet 
neither  revealed  a  ray  of  humour,  or  humanism.  He 
moved  somewhat  heavily. 

The  master  of  "  Colneside "  had  inherited  and  not 
created  his  business.  His  uncle  was  responsible  for  it,  and 
he  had  succeeded  by  right  of  law  when  still  a  young  man. 
He  had  a  cast  of  mind  destined  to  succeed  in  any  commer- 
cial enterprise,  and  would  have  picked  up  the  burden  as 
willingly  had  the  commodity  been  tea  or  soap,  iron  or 
bricks.  His  concern  lay  only  with  the  prosperity  of  the 
business,  and  in  course  of  time,  mastering  the  public  needs, 
he  surrounded  himself  with  skilled  horticulturists  and 
artists,  who  knew  every  detail  of  nursery  work.  Each 
department  of  the  garden  was  considered  and  placed  in  the 
hands  of  a  specialist ;  while  the  financial  details  alone  were 
the  occupation  of  Mr.  Ambrose.  He  worked  very  hard, 
and  saw  to  it  that,  from  Mistley  to  the  smallest  garden 
boy,  his  staff  did  the  like.  He  inspired  respect,  not  en- 
thusiasm. In  Colchester  Mr.  Ambrose  stood  for  more 
than  his  own  stake.  He  represented  the  horticultural  dis- 
trict interests,  and  had  long  been  a  Borough  Councillor 
for  the  North  Ward  and  also  a  member  of  the  County 
Council  for  the  Tendring  Hundred.  At  this  moment  he 
was  Mayor  of  Colchester,  for  the  second  time  in  ten  years, 
and  no  local  worthy  had  ever  discharged  his  varied  duties 


THE  STUDIO  29 

in  that  capacity  with  more  dignity  and  success.  He  was 
married  to  a  woman  twenty  years  younger  than  himself, 
who  loved  the  picturesque  side  of  his  official  duties,  and 
interested  herself  in  his  business  to  the  extent  of  being 
much  attached  to  flowers.  They  dwelt  not  at  Colchester, 
but  on  Mersea  Island  in  a  handsome  residence,  whose  lawns 
sloped  to  the  sea.  Mr.  Ambrose  drove  in  daily  by  motor- 
car. He  rose  at  six  o'clock,  winter  and  summer,  and  only 
on  rare  occasions  was  out  of  bed  after  ten  o'clock  at  night. 

"  No  letter  from  Ireland,  Mistley,"  he  said.  "  I  expect 
his  lordship  is  preoccupied  with  recruiting,  and  won't  re- 
new interest  in  the  gardens  yet  awhile." 

Mistley  nodded  and  sat  back  from  his  work. 

"  I  thought  of  going  into  Devonshire  next  week  to  see 
the  Saltoun  place." 

"  I  should  do  so.  Mr.  Saltoun  awaits  your  coming. 
He  wants  something  pretty  extensive,  I  fancy.  He  was 
describing  the  idea  to  me  when  I  met  him  at  the  meeting  of 
the  Royal  Horticultural  last  month.  You'll  like  him:  he 
has  your  large,  synthetical  ideas.  It's  an  old  Eliz- 
abethan house  and " 

"  I  have  the  photographs,"  said  Mistley. 

"  Well,  go  down  at  your  own  convenience." 

The  manner  of  Mr.  Ambrose  was  courteous  and  deferen- 
tial; but  upon  addressing  Seabrook  it  changed.  The 
deference,  not  the  courtesy,  disappeared. 

"  If  you're  not  desperately  busy,  Seabrook,  I  wish  you'd 
ask  Bultitude  to  pick  a  basket  of  carnations  for  Mrs.  Am- 
brose.     She  is  in  the  car,  waiting  for  me." 

"  I'll  do  so  at  once,"  answered  the  draughtsman.  Then 
he  rose,  took  his  hat,  and  went  into  the  gardens. 

After  he  had  gone,  the  master  examined  his  work. 

"  Does  this  strike  you  as  altogether  happy,'*  "  he  asked, 
and  Mistley  came  over  to  look  at  the  design. 

"  It's  the  sort  of  thing  they  wanted,  I  believe." 

"What  is  his  purpose  here?"  inquired  Mr.  Ambrose, 
pointing  to  an  empty  space  in  the  plan. 


30  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  A  clump  of  deciduous  stuff  with  good  autumn  colour. 
A  sugar  maple,  he  thought,  with  shumacs  and  liquidamber, 
and  parrotia,  perhaps." 

"  Excellent.  I'm  bound  to  say,  however,  that  I  share 
your  dislike  for  these  winding  paths.  There's  a  tendency 
to  overdo  them." 

"  One  remembers  the  old  French  joke  —  that  these  wob- 
bling ways  can  only  be  invented  by  a  drunken  gardener." 

Mr.  Ambrose  did  not  smile. 

"  I  see  the  point  of  the  jest,  though  I  can't  say  it 
amuses  me.  Seabrook's  tendency  is  to  let  imagination  run 
away  with  his  art.  That's  why  your  influence  is  so 
valuable." 

"  He  gives  people  what  they  want." 

"  The  average  artist  is  content  with  tliat,  I  believe." 

"  Yes,  and  mistakes  their  applause  for  success." 

"  Seabrook  is  not  touched  to  your  higher  issues.  A  wor- 
thy fellow  and  rich  in  imagination.  One  can't  deny  that 
he  has  planned  many  beautiful  gardens ;  but  he  will  never 
make  your  higher  appeal.  He  has  much  to  learn  from 
you,  though  very  likely  he  would  not  be  such  a  valuable 
man  to  me  if  he  learned  it." 

"  He  won't  change." 

"  In  some  ways,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose,  "  you  might  learn 
from  him,  too  —  not  in  the  matter  of  horticultural  ar- 
chitecture, my  dear  fellow :  we  are  all  your  pupils  there  — 
but  in  a  matter  far  more  important.  You  know  what  I 
mean." 

Mistley  nodded  and  returned  to  his  own  drawing. 

"  Faith  is  a  very  fine  thing,"  he  admitted ;  "  but  reason 
is  finer." 

"  Faith  can  move  mountains,  Mistley." 

"  Reason  can  tunnel  them.  I've  got  faith,  too,  for  that 
matter.     You  can't  live  without  it." 

"  Not  the  childlike  faith  of  our  common  friend." 

"  No,  but  a  manlike  faith,  founded  in  reason  —  faith  in 
mankind." 


THE  STUDIO  31 

"  We  Christians  do  not  lack  that,  you  know.  I'm 
bound  to  say  that  reason  does  not  awake  in  me  that  admir- 
able trust  in  my  own  species  which  is  so  vital  —  the  trust 
and  sympathy  with  man  as  man.  But  I  trust  them  in  the 
light  of  their  Maker.  Did  He  not  send  His  own  Son,  to 
save  them  from  themselves.''  And  shall  we  distrust  the 
being  for  whom  His  Maker  made  so  stupendous  a  sacrifice.? 
No  !  PerhaiDS  you  have  not  thought  of  that.''  I  made  the 
point  to  myself  —  while  I  was  meditating  recently  among 
our  delphiniums. 

"  The  simplicity  of  Seabrook,"  continued  INIr.  Ambrose, 
"  has  a  great  value.  The  simple-minded,  wuth  no  arms  but 
the  breastplate  of  Faith,  have  made  their  mark  on  the 
world's  history.  Take  the  Crusaders.  If  history  tells  us 
aright,  they  were  animated  by  one  pure  and  uplifted  pur- 
pose. I  have  been  reading  about  Peter  the  Hermit  only 
lately.     What  a  flame  animated  that  man !  " 

"  Such  men  are  used  by  inferior  men  to  advance  their 
own  base  purposes.  Those  that  led  the  Crusaders  were 
out  for  a  good  deal  more  than  the  rescue  of  the  Holy 
Land  from  the  Turk.  But  I  don't  know  much  about  it,  I 
confess." 

Seabrook  returned,  and  Mr.  Ambrose  discussed  his  plan 
with  him. 

"  I  rather  deprecate  these  curves,"  he  said,  and  the 
draughtsman  instantly  fell  in  with  his  suggestions. 

"  I  haven't  felt  quite  happy  about  them  myself,  Mr. 
Ambrose.  I  waited  to  consult  you.  My  alternative  idea 
was  this.     In  fact,  that  is  how  I  laid  out  the  plan  first." 

He  pencilled  the  drawing. 

"  Better  —  emphatically  better.  Send  in  the  drawing 
before  Saturday.  Sir  Charles  is  a  busy  man,  and  he  will 
then  be  able  to  study  it,  for  he  spends  his  week-ends  at 
home.  This  should  please  him.  Money  is  not  an  object, 
and  he  will  be  prepared  to  pay  for  specimen  plants.  When 
the  carnations  come  up,  you  might  take  them  to  the  car, 
Seabrook.     My  wife  has  a  favour  to  ask." 


82  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  Proud  to  oblige  Mrs.  Ambrose,  always,  sir." 

Mr.  Ambrose  smiled. 

"  You  are  the  most  good-natured  of  men.  I  am  going 
to  the  office  now  for  a  few  moments.  I  shall  return  this 
afternoon  about  four  of  the  clock.  I  lunch  at  Colchester. 
The  Council  meets  afterwards." 

He  left  them,  and  neither  spoke  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  Mistley  burst  out  — 

"  What  a  worm  you  are,  Seabrook !  I  hate  j^ou  some- 
times for  cringing  to  that  man." 

"  I  don't  cringe,  my  dear  chap.  Why  should  you  call  it 
cringing?  If  anybody  is  polite  and  considerate  and  deli- 
cate-minded, as  Ambrose  always  is,  why  should  not  I  be  the 


same  r 


?» 


"  He  patronises  you." 

"  I  don't  think  so ;  and  if  he  does,  there's  no  harm  in 
having  a  patron.  After  all,  what's  the  sense  in  being 
uppish  or  grudging?  I  work  for  him.  My  money  comes 
from  him." 

"  You  could  get  your  money  anywhere." 

"  Perhaps  I  could ;  but  why  think  it  necessary  to  snap  at 
the  hand  that  feeds  you  —  as  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  don't  snap ;  I'm  merely  independent.  You  lick  the 
hand  that  feeds  you." 

Seabrook  flushed  under  his  clear  skin. 

"  Why  are  you  so  unpleasant?  " 

"  What  does  she  want  you  for?  To  sing  at  one  of  her 
blessed  concerts,  or  dinner-parties.  To  sing,  either  for 
charity,  or  to  amuse  her  guests." 

"  Very  likely.  Why  not?  I  can  sing,  and  why  should  I 
refuse  to  sing?  " 

"  And  behind  your  back  she  calls  you  the  '  harmless, 
necessary  Seabrook.'  " 

"  Not  unkindly  —  not  with  any  unpleasant  meaning. 
She  is  much  too  good-hearted  for  that.  To  be  necessary 
and  harmless  is  more  than  some  people  are." 


THE  STUDIO  33 

Mistley,  for  invisible  reasons,  appeared  to  be  in  a  bad 
temper.  He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  then  suddenly 
recovered. 

"I'm  sorry.  What  the  devil  business  is  it  of  mine? 
Ambrose  said  I'd  got  a  bit  to  learn  from  you  and  he  was 
right.  You're  worth  a  hundred  of  me.  To  be  self-pos- 
sessed is  the  whole  art  of  living  —  so  Goethe  says.  You're 
always  self-possessed  —  that's  something  —  perhaps  ev- 
erything." 

"  I  can  get  what  I  want  out  of  life  my  way.  And  I  hope 
you'll  get  what  you  want  out  of  it  your  way.  Though  I 
doubt  it,"  answered  Seabrook,  smiling. 

"  Only  an  inferior  order  of  intellect  is  ever  contented,  in 
my  opinion,"  answered  the  elder. 

The  head  man  of  the  gardens  entered  with  a  mighty 
bunch  of  carnations,  scarlet  and  crimson,  pink  and  white. 

James  Bultitude  was  short  and  square  and  solid  —  a 
resolute,  underhung  man,  who  had  worked  in  the  gardens 
from  his  twelfth  year  and  was  now  in  supreme  authority 
out  of  doors. 

"  Here's  the  carnations,"  he  said.  "  If  Mr.  Ambrose 
wants  me,  I'm  in  the  propagating  house." 

Geoffrey  Seabrook,  bareheaded,  with  his  curls  shining  in 
the  sun,  proceeded  where  a  lady  sat  in  a  motor-car  out- 
side the  gate  of  the  gardens. 

Mrs.  Ambrose  was  slight  and  dainty.  She  looked  hardly 
more  than  twenty-five,  though  in  reality  ten  years  older. 
Her  fair  face  beamed  with  vivacity  and  sex;  her  mouth 
was  large  and  showed  her  white  teeth  at  every  word.  Her 
manner  was  a  little  exaggerated  and  theatrical.  She  chal- 
lenged and  charmed ;  but  though  her  heart  was  warm,  her 
memory  was  short.  Kind  thoughts  and  generous  promises 
leapt  to  her  lips ;  but  she  often  lacked  steadfastness  to 
preserve  the  one,  or  perform  the  other.  She  was  wholly 
delightful  in  anybody's  company;  but  out  of  sight  proved 
often  out  of  mind  with  Helena  Ambrose.     Her  friends  for- 


34*  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

gave  her  on  the  score  of  her  busy  life  and  indifferent  mem- 
ory ;  impartial  people  said  she  was  insincere.  She  greeted 
the  draughtsman  effusively,  took  the  flowers  from  him  and 
chatted  while  he  stood  by  the  car.  Once  or  twice  she 
rested  her  hand  on  his  arm.  He  stood  quiet,  happy  and 
submissive. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Seabrook.  How  lovely !  What 
glorious  weather !  Did  my  husband  tell  you  ?  A  favour. 
I'm  always  asking  favours.  You've  guessed  it.  Our  din- 
ner-party next  month.  It  will  be  so  heavenly  of  you  if 
you'll  come." 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure.  I've  got  the  new  song 
right  now  —  the  one  you  told  me  to  get  —  words  by  Cam- 
maerts." 

"  How  splendid  of  you !  Did  you  like  it?  I  thought  it 
beautiful ;  and  the  moment  I  heard  it,  I  said  '  that's  the 
song  for  Mr.  Seabrook  ' !  " 

"  I  liked  it  tremendously." 

She  made  a  little  face  at  the  back  of  the  white-clad  car- 
driver,  who  sat  in  front  of  her. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  won't  be  a  very  lively  entertainment." 

"  Then  it  will  be  your  first  party  that  was  dull." 

"  That  godless  old  Carbonell  is  coming,  and  Parkyn 
always  wants  a  stout  Christian  or  two  to  support  him  when 
Dr.  Carbonell  comes.  Mr.  Odington  and  his  wife  and 
•daughter,  and  Mrs.  Chaffe  and  her  girl.  That's  the  lot. 
Only  eight.     Do  you  feel  equal  to  it?  " 

"  I  shall  look  forward  to  it  exceedingly." 

"  You  can't  form  any  idea  of  the  pleasure  you'll  give," 
she  said,  staring  into  his  eyes.  "  You're  much  too  modest 
to  dream  it,  you  gifted  thing !  " 

Her  husband  appeared  and  entered  the  car. 

Geoffrey  bowed  rather  low  as  they  prepared  to  start, 
and  Mr.  Ambrose  spoke. 

"  To  the  Moot  Hall,"  he  said  to  the  driver,  then  turned 
to  Seabrook.     "  Be  good  enough  to  tell  Miss  Mayhew  to 


THE  STUDIO  S5 

have  all  mj  letters  ready  for  signing  at  four  o'clock  —  not 
later." 

They  sped  away,  the  man  gazing  at  the  sky,  while  liis 
wife,  gathering  up  the  carnations,  nursed  them,  conscious 
that  she  made  a  picture. 


CHAPTER  IV 

"  PERFECTION    IN    A    NUTSHEIX  " 

AvELiNE  had  promised  to  visit  her  new  friend  and  she  kept 
her  word.  Margery  Mayhew  Hved  with  her  uncle,  who 
was  head  working  gardener  at  "  Colneside,"  and  the  com- 
mon interests  of  niece  and  uncle  centred  at  the  nurseries. 

Aveline  was  warned  by  Margery  on  the  day  of  her  visit, 
for  she  reached  "  Fair  View  Villa  "  at  Mile  End  before  Mr. 
Mushet  returned. 

"  He's  house-proud,"  explained  Gregory's  niece.  "  This 
little  house  was  planned  by  him  and  made  for  him.  He'll 
want  to  take  you  round,  and,  seeing  the  size,  you  mightn't 
think  that  was  much  of  an  ordeal ;  but  it  will  be,  because 
he'll  stop  every  minute." 

"  It's  a  very  comfortable  house,  I'm  sure." 

They  were  in  the  little  front  garden  as  they  spoke, 
where  every  flower  stood  in  its  place,  tied  to  a  stick,  like 
somebody  being  photographed  with  his  head  on  a  rest. 

"  Uncle's  got  a  saying,  and  I  warn  you  not  to  laugh 
when  he  says  it,  Mrs.  Brown.  He'll  tell  you  that  perfec- 
tion is  what  he's  out  for,  and  he  won't  be  put  off  with  any- 
thing less." 

"  Doesn't  he  know  you  can't  get  perfection?  " 

"  Rather  not !  That's  the  beauty  of  it.  He  reckons 
he  has  got  perfection.  And  he  calls  '  Fair  View  Villa ' 
'  perfection  in  a  nutshell.'  " 

A  man  passed  the  outer  gate,  where  the  women  stood  to 
welcome  Mr.  Mushet.  He  was  very  tall,  broad-shoul- 
dered and  brawny.  He  wore  a  strange  hat,  and  his  face 
was  half  buried  in  a  heavy  black  beard  and  whiskers  and 

36 


■^  "PERFECTION  IN  A  NUTSHELL"  37 

moustache.  The  eyes  were  bright,  the  nose  massive,  the 
expression  gloomy.  He  smiled,  however,  at  seeing  Mar- 
gery, and  nodded  to  her,  hesitated,  as  though  about  to 
stay,  and  then  passed  on  with  a  brief  salutation. 

"  Good  evening,  Margery." 

"  Good  evening,  Andrew." 

"  What  a  splendid  man,"  said  Aveline,  when  he  had 
passed.  Then  she  looked  at  the  girl  and  started,  for  Miss 
Mayhew  had  turned  very  pale. 

"  Is  that  the  ]\Ir.  Hempson  Mr.  Mistley  was  telling  me 
about .?  "  she  asked,  ignoring  the  other's  emotion. 

Margery  nodded. 

"  What  wonderful  experiences  he  must  have  had  in 
China,  and  what  bad  luck !  " 

Margery  nodded  again. 

"  It's  his  turn  for  good  luck  now,  and  I'm  positive  he's 
soon  going  to  get  some,"  declared  the  elder,  who  possessed 
a  fatal  instinct  for  telling  people  things  that  she  felt  they 
would  like  to  hear. 

A  little  warmth  returned  to  Margery's  cheek. 

"  He's  nothing  to  me,"  she  said,  thereby  indicating  that 
Mr.  Hempson  was  everything  to  her. 

Then  came  Gregory  Mushet.  He  was  a  small,  sturdy 
man,  solidly  built  and  rather  bow-legged.  The  marks  of 
toil  were  on  his  boots  and  gaiters  and  hands.  His  mouth 
was  clean-shaved,  but  a  white  fringe  of  hair  descended 
from  his  ears  and  met  under  his  chin.  His  head  was  very 
bald;  his  eyes,  over  which  age  had  half  drawn  the  eyelids, 
were  cheerful,  contented  and  confident. 

"  This  is  Mrs.  Brown,  who  has  come  to  live  at  Colches- 
ter, Uncle  Greg." 

Mr.  Mushet  shook  hands. 

"  I'll  brush  up  and  we'll  have  tea.  Don't  you  show 
Mrs.  Brown  the  place,  Margery.  I'll  go  round  with  her. 
She'll  be  wishing  to  see  it,  no  doubt." 

They  had  tea  presently,  and  Mr.  Mushet  proved  in  a 
philosophic  vein. 


38  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

Apropos  of  a  man  who  had  that  day  been  dismissed 
from  the  nurseries  for  intemperance,  he  spoke. 

"  I  often  say  you  never  know  what  you  may  come  to. 
Now  that's  a  true  and  helpful  thought,  eh  ?  " 

"  True,  yes,"  answered  Aveline,  "  but  not  particularly 
helpful." 

"  Most  helpful,"  declared  Mr.  Mushet  triumphantly, 
"  because  it  often  helps  you  not  to  come  to  it !  " 

The  visitor  laughed. 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  she  said. 

"  For  young  people,  you  always  want  to  set  up  an 
object  before  their  eyes  —  something  for  them  to  work 
for  and  hope  for,"  he  said.  "  For  instance,  take  this 
house.  A  young  person,  without  any  particular  ideas  for 
his  future,  comes  in  and  has  tea  with  me  and  Margery,  as 
you  are  doing  now.  They  see  this  house,  and  then,  most 
likely  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  understand  to  what 
a  pitch  a  house  may  be  brought  up.  What  happens  then  ? 
If  he's  worth  anything,  the  young  person  instantly  gets  a 
hope  and  a  resolve,  that  some  day,  please  God,  he'll  have 
a  house  like  it.  It  uplifts  him  to  work,  and  very  likely 
improves  his  whole  career." 

"  It's  a  very  compact  house,"  said  Aveline. 

"  It's  a  great  deal  more  than  compact,  I  assure  you," 
declared  the  owner.  "  A  box  of  matches  is  compact.  We 
rise  a  good  bit  above  that  at  '  Fair  View,'  don't  we, 
Margery.-^  Cast  your  eyes  round  this  room,  for  in- 
stance." 

Aveline  obeyed.  She  began  to  dislike  Mr.  Mushet:  he 
was  conceited. 

Round  the  walls  of  the  parlour,  in  remarkable  frames  of 
his  own  making,  the  gardener  had  arranged  works  of  art. 
A  print  of  "  The  Forester's  Family,"  by  Sir  Edwin  Land- 
seer,  occupied  the  place  of  honour  and  hung  high  on  one 
wall.  Next  came  the  picture  of  a  knightly  figure  in 
armour  bidding  farewell  to  a  beautiful  damsel.  It  was  a 
wash-drawing  touched  with  white  chalk.     There  followed 


"PERFECTION  IN  A  NUTSHELL"  39 

an  oleograph  landscape  with  black  fir  trees,  a  blood-red 
sunset,  and  much  snow  upon  which  five  wolves  hunted  a 
man  in  a  sledge. 

"  Life  and  action,  you  see,"  explained  Mr.  Mushet. 
"  It  catches  the  evening  sun,  and  that's  the  time  to  look 
at  it.  Some  people  say  it's  hand-painted,  others  that  it's 
a  print ;  but  what  does  it  matter  how  it  was  made  if  it 
couldn't  be  better?  I  dare  say  you've  marked  that  I  will 
have  variety  with  my  pictures.  These  works  were  bought 
at  sales.  I've  let  many  and  many  a  picture  go  —  just 
because  it  missed  perfection.  You  may  notice  my  relig- 
ious picture  is  hung  over  the  harmonium." 

Aveline  lifted  her  eyes  to  a  German  print  of  "  Daniel  in 
the  Lion's  Den." 

"  To  have  hung  that  over  the  harmonium  was  a  touch  I 
dare  say  you'd  missed?  "  asked  Mr.  Mushet. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  had." 

"  Many  do  until  I  point  it  out.  And  then  they  see. 
It's  just  a  feeling  for  propriety.  The  house  bristles  with 
touches  like  that,  and  the  result  is  completeness.  It  runs 
through  the  bedrooms  and  everything.  You  might  find 
many  a  house  with  more  luxuries,  and  yet  nothing  of  the 
completeness.  As  for  luxuries,  so  called,  when  you  come 
to  examine  them,  they  often  fade  into  air.  For  instance, 
what's  the  use  of  a  bathroom  if  you  never  have  a  bath? 
None,  and  I'll  challenge  the  world  to  deny  it." 

"  You  do  have  a  bath  every  Saturday  night,  uncle," 
said  Margery. 

"  I  wash  myself  in  my  own  way  —  every  inch,"  admitted 
Mr.  Mushet ;  "  but  not  by  lying  and  stewing  in  hot  water. 
That's  luxury,  and  I  despise  it.  Then  take  electric  light. 
A  candle  was  good  enough  for  my  forefathers,  and  how 
am  I  better  than  them,  except  by  education?  Comfort  is 
better  than  show,  and  ease  of  body  more  important  than 
pride  of  mind.     Try  that  arm-chair." 

Aveline,  who  had  finished  an  excellent  tea,  obeyed. 

"  Deliciously  comfortable,"  she  said ;  "  but  every  time  I 


40  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

looked  up  I  should  be  wondering  if  the  wolves  were  going 
to  catch  the  man." 

"  They  can't,  because  it's  a  picture,"  explained  Mr. 
Mushet.  "  In  this  house  —  the  work  of  forty  years 
almost  —  you  go  from  completeness  to  completeness. 
What  I  was  out  for  was  perfection  in  a  nutshell,  you 
understand,  and  I  claim  no  less.  You  must  see  the  best 
parlour  now.  Margery  calls  it  the  drawing-room;  I  call 
it  the  best  parlour." 

"  What's  in  a  name?  "  asked  Aveline. 

"  Exactly.  Here  we  eat,  there  we  sit.  My  best  pic- 
tures of  all  are  there,  and  other  works  of  pure  ornament 
for  the  eye,  such  as  glass  and  china.  So  what  I  say  is, 
that  if  anybody  gave  me  a  thousand  a  year  and  a  castle, 
d'you  know  what  I'd  do?  I'd  sell  the  castle  and  put  the 
money  in  the  bank  and  stop  at  '  Fair  View  ' !  " 

"  You're  the  most  contented  man  I  ever  met,"  said  Ave- 
line. 

"  The  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  Uncle  Gregory 
doesn't  know  he's  born,"  explained  Margery.  "  He 
doesn't  know  the  dreadful  things  that  might  have  hap- 
pened to  him,  and  so  he  doesn't  know  his  luck." 

But  Mr.  Mushet  would  not  allow  this. 

"  If  I  granted  that,  it  would  be  to  give  up  all  credit," 
he  said.  "  There's  lots  of  traps  set  for  every  man  that 
hops  hopefully  into  the  world  —  just  as  there  is  for  every 
bird  —  and  I'm  not  vain  enough  to  say  I  was  never  caught. 
Who  can?  But  I  shouldn't  be  where  I  am  —  in  this  house 
—  if  I'd  been  caught  many  times." 

Aveline  had  never  seen  anybody  quite  so  pleased  with 
himself  as  Mr.  Mushet.  Her  responsive  nature  began 
to  share  the  old  man's  enthusiasm. 

"  It's  too  wonderful  for  anything,"  she  said.  "  Your 
house  is  a  work  of  art,  Mr.  Mushet.  So's  your  garden, 
I'm  sure." 

"  When  you  say  '  garden,'  Mrs.  Brown,"  he  answered, 
"  you  touch  my  pride.     If  I  was  a  vain  sort  of  man  I 


"PERFECTION  IN  A  NUTSHELL"  41 

might  weary  your  mind  about  my  garden.  But  when 
anybody  says  'garden,'  I  answer  nothing  and  just  take 
'em  into  mine  and  let  them  draw  their  own  conclusions." 

"  And  the  conclusion  always  is  that,  for  its  size,  Uncle 
Gregory's  garden  is  the  most  wonderful  in  Colchester," 
said  Margery. 

"  Only  twelve  yards  by  eighteen  — you  must  always 
keep  that  in  mind,"  explained  Mr.  Mushet.  "  Only  twelve 
by  eighteen  and  yet,  as  Madge  says,  nothing  like  it  in 
Colchester.  Of  course,  as  a  professional  gardener  I  have 
a  big  pull  in  that  matter  over  amateurs ;  yet  when  I  tell 
them  the  size,  many  of  the  nicest  minded  people  think  I'm 
a  liar." 

They  went  out  presently  and  inspected  the  garden.  A 
withering  precision  characterised  it. 

"  Here  you  see  the  difference  between  a  garden  and  a 
nursery,"  said  the  owner.  "  In  our  forty  acres  of  nurs- 
ery, the  plants  have  a  certain  amount  of  freedom  and  are 
nearer  to  nature,  so  to  speak ;  but  let  a  plant  once  come 
into  such  a  garden  as  this  and  it  instantly  gets  under  the 
influence  of  science." 

"  In  your  garden  they  soon  find  '  that  life  is  real,  life  is 
earnest.'  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  gardener.  "  You  can  get  shirkers  in  a 
flower-bed,  same  as  anywhere  else,  and  it  isn't  everybody 
knows  when  a  plant's  not  doing  its  best.  I'll  have  no  non- 
sense here.  I  do  my  part  —  above  ground  and  beneath ; 
and  Nature  does  her  part ;  and  if  the  plant  don't  do  its 
part,  I  soon  put  a  sharp  question." 

"  I  suppose  they  have  got  their  constitutions,"  sug- 
gested the  visitor,  "  and  some  are  inigged  and  hearty  and 
some  are  delicate  and  tender.''  " 

"  Yes,  that  is  so ;  and  if  you  like  hospital  work,  you  can 
always  fill  your  garden  with  half  hardy  stuff  and  doubtful 
doers  and  miffy  plants  that  quaver  before  rain  or  sun,  or 
heat  or  cold.  In  fact,  invalids.  '  Colneside  '  must  have 
such  plants,  of  course,  because  some  people's  whole  idea  of 


42  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

gardening  is  to  make  things  live  in  England  that  God 
planned  to  flourish  in  the  Canary  Islands,  or  to  murder 
good  plants  on  a  south  wall,  that  only  ought  to  dwell  in  a 
hothouse.  But  when  a  plant  begins  to  go  home  here,  he's 
very  soon  out  of  his  misery  and  out  of  my  garden." 

"  I  don't  believe  uncle's  ever  got  to  love  flowers,  though 
he's  worked  at  them  all  his  life,"  said  Margery. 

"  I  like  'em  as  my  brother,  Samuel  Mushet,  of  the  oyster 
fishery,  likes  his  marine  engines,"  explained  Gregory. 
"  My  brother,  you  must  know,  is  the  engineer  on  the  Fish- 
ery Company's  steamboat.  Peewit,  and  his  engines  are  a 
picture,  same  as  my  garden  is ;  but  he'll  stand  no  nonsense 
and  will  have  everything  just  so ;  for  with  a  steam-engine, 
just  the  same  as  with  a  garden  such  as  this,  you  must  be 
servant,  or  master." 

"  And  has  he  got  such  a  wonderful  house  as  yours .''  " 
asked  Aveline. 

"  No,  he  has  not :  he's  married.  I'm  not  running  down 
his  house,  however.  He's  got  a  mechanical  mind,  and 
you'll  very  seldom  find  a  man  that  looks  after  machinery 
to  live  in  an  untidy  or  lawless  house.  A  man,  if  he  is  a 
free  man,  is  reflected  in  his  house  and  his  clothes,  and  his 
outlook  on  the  world  in  general;  but  a  married  man  is  not 
a  free  man:  he's  only  half  a  man,  in  the  sense  that  he's 
called  to  share  his  life  with  another  order  of  creation,  that 
looks  at  all  things  from  the  female  angle,  which,  of  course, 
is  quite  different  from  ours.  So  when  you  go  into  my 
brother's  house  at  Brittlesea  you  don't  go  into  the  house 
of  Samuel  Mushet,  you  go  into  the  house  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Mushet,  which,  naturally,  is  quite  another  creation. 
Then,  again,  if  a  pair  have  no  children,  the  understanding 
mind  knows  it  before  they've  walked  through  the  hall  of 
the  house,  and  so  you  may  say  a  house  is  either  the  home 
of  a  man,  or  the  home  of  a  man  and  his  wife,  or  the  home 
of  a  man  and  his  wife  and  his  family." 

"  I  never  heard  anything  truer  than  that,"  declared 
Aveline. 


"PERFECTION  IN  A  NUTSHELL"  43 

"  In  my  brother's  case,  he  has  one  boy ;  a  very  good, 
hard-working,  modest  youth.  He'd  marry  Madge  to-mor- 
row for  that  matter." 

"  Teddy's  a  dear,  good  chap,  but  I  never  could  marry 
any  man  not  older  than  myself,"  replied  Mr.  Mushet's 
niece.  "  Brightlingsea's  a  very  nice  place,"  she  continued. 
"  It's  flat  down  there,  but  the  mud  banks  are  beautiful 
when  the  sea  lavender  comes  out." 

"  Mud  banks  are  always  beautiful,"  said  Aveline.  "  I 
love  Essex  already ;  it's  a  most  delightful  county,  to  my 
thinking  —  full  of  wonderful  landscape  and  covered  with 
wonderful  skies,  because  the  horizons  are  often  so  low. 
I'm  going  to  paint  pictures,  and  I  shall  be  perfectly  happy 
if  I  can  only  sell  them." 

"  To  make  things  is  one  job:  to  sell  them  is  another," 
said  Mr.  Mushet.  "  The  things  that  people  must  have, 
like  food  and  clothes  and  a  roof  overhead,  they'll  buy ;  but 
when  it  comes  to  the  higher  flights,  they  think  twice. 
There  must  be  perfect  peace  of  mind  and  easiness  of 
pocket  before  we  reach  up  to  pictures." 

"  My  rooms  are  too  expensive,"  declared  the  visitor, 
"  and  I  shan't  have  easiness  of  pocket  much  longer  if  I 
stop  in  them.  D'you  think  I  could  find  two  up  here? 
I  like  it  here  on  the  hill.  It's  breezier  than  down  below. 
But  perhaps  lodgings  will  be  more  expensive  here.''  " 

"  What  about  Mrs.  Hempson,  Madge?  "  asked  her  uncle. 
"  Since  Andrew  Hempson  had  his  bad  luck  they're  a  bit  in 
low  water,  and  I  happen  to  know  his  mother's  going  to  let 
if  she  can.  Andrew  wants  to  be  off  again,  but  Mr.  Am- 
brose isn't  taking  any  more  chances  for  the  present  —  not 
till  after  the  war,  anyway.  Too  fiery,  that  man  —  Hemp- 
son, I  mean.  I  believe  half  the  mess  he  got  into  was  owing 
to  his  temper." 

"  I'm  sure  it  wasn't,"  said  Margery. 

"  He  couldn't  hit  it  off  with  the  heathen,  where  the  rare 
plants  grow,  and  they  very  nearly  knocked  his  brains  out," 
explained  Mr.  Mushet. 


44.  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  If  Margery  will  take  me  to  see  Mrs.  Hempson  to-mor- 
row, or  any  convenient  day,  I'll  gladly  go,"  said  Aveline; 
"  and  now  I  mustn't  keep  you  any  more.  I've  enjoyed 
myself  very  much  indeed,  and  some  day  I'll  paint  a  picture 
for  you,  Mr.  Musliet." 

She  left  them,  and  each  was  a  little  dubious  when  she 
had  gone. 

"  If  she  goes  there,  she'll  fall  in  love  with  Andrew  — 
sure  to,"  said  Margery.     "  She's  lovely,  isn't  she?  " 

"  She's  a  lady,"  answered  Gregory  Mushet.  "  You  can 
always  tell  them.  And  a  very  nice  lady  to  look  at,  as  you 
say  ;  but  she's  one  of  two  things  —  hard-hearted,  or  light- 
minded.     Or  she  may  be  both." 

"  She's  not  hard-hearted,  uncle.  I  know  that.  She's 
all  heart." 

"  Then  she's  light-minded,"  replied  the  old  man.  "  For 
why?  She's  a  new-made  widow,  for  one  thing,  though  her 
black's  only  just  decent  for  the  state.  And  being  so,  she's 
a  darned  sight  too  cheerful  and  lively  in  my  opinion." 

"  Perhaps  her  husband  wasn't  nice,"  suggested  Margery. 

"  Another  thing,"  continued  Mr.  Mushet,  "  she's  seen  my 
pictures,  and  in  my  judgment  it  was  a  thought  pushing  to 
offer  me  one  of  hers,  before  she  knew  if  I  had  any  use  for 
it.  It's  rather  vain  to  offer  your  work  to  another  who's 
got  what's  better  already,  for  you  may  feel  pretty  sure  a 
handsome,  pleasure-loving  young  woman  like  her  can't 
paint  a  picture  worthy  to  stand  beside  mine.  And  if,  with 
the  best  intentions,  she  gives  me  a  picture  I  don't  hold  with, 
I  shan't  put  it  up,  I  warn  you.  I  won't  spoil  the  house  to 
minister  to  an  outsider's  vanity." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE    DWARF    riK    TREES 

AvELiNE  began  the  picture  of  the  water  garden  and 
worked  in  a  broad,  free,  modern  method.  She  drew  very 
largely  with  the  brush.  Her  personal  experience  was  that 
if  the  sky  came  right,  the  rest  came  right ;  if  the  sky  came 
wrong,  then  she  began  once  more.  Her  sky  she  always 
put  in  first  and  never  touched  again.  She  painted  very 
wet,  and  had  a  little  effective  trick  with  water  shadows  of 
which  she  was  proud.  Artists  said  her  work  was  naive 
and  alive ;  laymen  either  liked  it  very  much,  or  frankly  dis- 
liked it.  She  had  been  accepted  and  hung  in  London  on 
one  or  two  occasions ;  but  to  paint  for  a  living  was  a  new 
experience,  and  Aveline  novv'  tried  to  impress  upon  her 
mind  the  gravity  of  the  situation. 

"  I've  always  lived  to  please  myself  until  now,"  she 
thought,  "  and  now  I  must  please  other  people  to  live  at 
all." 

Peter  Mistle}^  came  down  during  her  second  morning  at 
the  picture,  and  she  painted  without  embarrassment,  while 
he  looked  on.  To  his  surprise  he  found  that  Aveline  made 
no  business  of  showing  him  the  picture,  and  revealed  no 
particular  desire  to  learn  what  he  thought  of  it.  She 
greeted  him  in  a  bright  and  cheerful  spirit  and  went  on 
with  her  thoughts  aloud. 

"  So  glad  to  see  somebody  to  talk  to,"  she  said.  "  I 
hate  thinking  to  myself;  it's  so  much  pleasanter  to  think 
to  other  people.  I  was  just  envying  those  artists  who  can 
do  absolutely  first-rate  work  —  and  still  be  popular. 
There  are  just  a  few  wonderful  painters  and  writers  who 
are  great  artists  and  at  the  same  time  have  a  wide  circle. 

45 


46  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

So  they  get  the  best  of  both  worlds.  Now  people  like  that, 
I  think,  are  the  luckiest  on  earth,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  they  are ;  but  that's  not  fame.  Fame  is  some- 
thing that  embalms  the  work  of  the  dead  and  inoculates  it 
against  the  moth  and  rust  of  time.  But  it  must  be  a  joy, 
as  you  say,  to  please  those  whose  opinion  you  value  — 
even  to  get  one  really  first-class  man  to  be  interested  in 
you." 

"  Or  one  really  first-class  woman,"  said  Aveline. 

"  One  can't  wish  for  better  luck.  Ruskin  made 
Turner." 

"  Turner  made  himself.  Ruskin  pointed  out  that  Tur- 
ner was  a  stupendous  swell ;  which,  for  the  moment,  people 
didn't  see.  But  Ruskin  wasn't  the  only  person  in  the 
world  that  mattered.  It  was  Turner  who  mattered,  not 
Ruskin.  Ruskin  may  have  quickened  things  and  helped 
Turner's  banking  account ;  but  he  doesn't  help  Turner's 
fame  —  not  if  Fame's  what  you  say  it  is." 

"  But  Ruskin  incited  Turner  —  bucked  him  up,  made 
him  paint." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  declared  Aveline.  "  I  believe  that 
Turner  must  have  often  been  bored  to  death  by  Ruskin. 
I  believe  it  was  the  trying  to  live  up  to  Ruskin  that  made 
it  absolutely  necessary  for  Turner  to  vanish  and  wallow 
in  the  stye  from  time  to  time,  just  to  be  human  and  get  a 
bit  of  his  own  back.  I  don't  believe  Ruskin  bucked  him  up 
at  all.  I  think  it's  much  more  likely  that  he  depressed 
him  and  lowered  his  vitality.  Nothing  lowers  the  vitality 
like  trying  to  be  good ;  because  nine  times  out  of  ten, 
you're  trying  to  be  something  you  can't  be  and  were  never 
meant  to  be.  Turner  was  never  meant  to  be  good.  He 
was  meant  to  be  an  immortal  genius,  sent  into  the  world 
that  we  might  have  light,  and  have  it  more  abundantly.  I 
hate  all  this  talk  about  being  good.  You  don't  Avhine  at  a 
grape  because  the  pips  are  sour,  or  at  a  lily  because  its 
bulb  lives  happiest  in  the  mire.  That's  the  lily's  business, 
and  if  the  petals  are  like  those  " —  she  pointed  at  a  silver 


THE  DWARF  FIR  TREES  47 

star  in  the  water  at  their  feet  — "  and  if  its  heart  is  such 
a  miracle  of  precious  workmanship,  why  on  earth  do  you 
want  to  worry,  because  it  doesn't  hve  on  bread  and  butter 
and  spend  its  spare  time  doing  good  works  ?  " 

Mistley  was  much  astonished,  for  she  spoke  almost 
with  bitterness.  This  was  no  impersonal  criticism.  Her 
thoughts  sprang  from  experience.  He  marvelled,  and  his 
heart  went  out  to  her  till  his  head  pulled  it  back  a  little. 

"  Dangerous  sort  of  doctrine.  But  we  do  gather  grapes 
from  thistles  and  figs  from  thorns,  where  art  is  born,"  he 
admitted. 

"  And  I'd  sooner  be  great  than  good,  any  day,"  she  de- 
clared ;  "  but  most  people,  of  course,  are  neither.  Any- 
how we  know  what  greatness  is ;  but  we  don't  know  what 
goodness  is.     And  some  of  us  don't  care," 

"  I  feel  like  that  —  up  to  a  point,"  he  said. 

*'  The  thing  is  to  make  things  —  if  you  can,"  she  de- 
clared. "  The  only  reall}^  precious  people  in  the  world  are 
those  who  make  things ;  and  if  other  people,  through  igno- 
rance or  stupidity  or  wickedness,  come  between  us,  who 
can  make  things,  and  our  work,  then  life  isn't  worth  living. 
Men  don't  understand  that  half  as  well  as  women.  For 
thousands  of  years  you've  told  us  we  can't  make  things, 
and  prevented  us  from  making  anything  but  babies,  and 
then  invited  us  to  see  that  everything  worth  making  is 
made  by  man.  But  now  we're  being  educated  and  getting 
a  chance,  you'll  soon  see  that  in  everything  that  matters 
we're  as  good  as  you." 

"  I  dare  say  j^ou'll  prove  it  in  time.  In  fact  you  are 
proving  it.  It  is  cruel  and  damnable  to  take  men  away 
from  making  things.  That  is  one  of  the  cruel,  damnable 
things  about  this  war.  Thinking  of  sending  creators  — 
artists  —  out  to  destroy." 

"  And  be  destroyed.  I  don't  care  how  many  Germans 
we  kill,  because  their  art  is  dead  —  poisoned  at  the  roots 
—  and  this  generation  of  them  may  as  well  be  swept  away 
as  not ;  but  our  art  is  full  of  life  and  hope." 


48  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

He  became  personal. 

"  You  belong  to  the  school  of  East  and  Brangw\'n,  I 
see,"  he  said.  "  As  a  landscape  man  myself,  I  admire 
them.  You're  getting  the  essentials  of  this  place.  D'you 
see  the  willows  as  dark  as  that.''  " 

"Don't  you.?" 

"  No  —  can't  say  I  do.  But  perhaps  you  want  them 
dark  for  the  sake  of  something  else?  " 

"  I'll  lighten  them." 

"  Don't,  if  you  think  they're  right." 

"  I  never  think  anything  I  do  is  right  when  it's  done," 
she  answered.     "  It's  only  a  joy  while  I'm  doing  it." 

"  The  water's  going  to  be  glorious,"  he  said.  He  stood 
and  watched  her  work.  It  seemed  slap-dash  after  his  own 
careful  convention,  for  he  only  painted  in  elevation  for  the 
sake  of  customers,  who  lacked  the  imagination  to  see  the 
force  of  ground  plans.  His  art  was  represented  by  the 
finished  garden ;  but  hers  was  a  greater  thing.  He  called 
her  attention  to  a  passage  or  two,  and  she  saw  the  value  of 
his  criticism  sometimes,  but  not  always. 

"  Some  of  the  things  you  don't  like  are  wrong,"  she  ad- 
mitted, "  but  some  of  the  things  you  don't  like  are  right, 
because  they  are  just  me." 

"  You  paint  wonderfully,"  he  assured  her.  "  This  gar- 
den has  never  been  done  your  way.  Most  people  smother 
it  with  details ;  you're  going  to  get  the  larger  truth  of 
it,  which  is  easily  lost  among  a  lot  of  little  niggling 
truths." 

She  stopped  presently,  lifted  her  board  off  the  easel  and 
set  it  in  the  sun. 

"  Now  it  must  dry,"  she  said.  "  Have  you  got  a  ciga- 
rette? " 

He  had  not. 

"  I  only  smoke  a  pipe,"  he  confessed. 

"  It  doesn't  matter.  I  wanted  to  see  what  sort  you 
smoked,"  she  answered,  very  frankly.  Then  she  produced 
one  of  her  own. 


THE  DWARF  FIR  TREES  49 

"  I've  got  to  choose  some  dwarf  trees.  Come  and  help 
me,"  he  suggested,  wondering  at  himself. 

She  agreed,  and  they  left  the  water  garden  and  walked 
to  another  part  of  the  nursery,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant. 
She  lagged  among  the  lovely  things,  but  he  would  not  stop 
until  they  came  to  a  colony  of  tiny  conifers  —  perfect, 
pygmy  trees  from  Canada  and  Italy,  from  China  and  Ja- 
pan. Here  Avere  pines  and  firs ;  yews  and  thuyas ;  won- 
drous, magic  junipers  of  every  shape  and  hue,  some  golden 
bright ;  some  silvery,  some  very  dark  and  solid,  some  with 
feathery  finials  as  blue  as  the  sky. 

Aveline  was  enthusiastic.     "  They're  darlings,"  she  said, 

"  Natural  dwarfs  —  fat  and  prosperous,  as  you  see." 

"  So  much  the  better.  I  don't  like  things  pinched  and 
starved  and  stunted." 

"  That's  only  because  you  don't  understand  what  the 
Japanese  are  after.  They  would  scoff  at  this  show  of 
healthy,  hearty  things.  Mind  you,  I  don't  like  Japanese 
gardens  stuck  in  the  middle  of  English  ones ;  but  our  gar- 
dens to  theirs  are  a  child's  mud-pie  to  a  princess's  wedding- 
cake." 

"  I  like  to  see  plants  happy,"  she  declared. 

"  The  earthiness  of  our  gardens  is  simply  revolting,"  he 
assured  her ;  and  in  her  reply  Aveline  told  him  more  about 
herself. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  earthiness  ? "  she  asked. 
"  What's  the  good  of  starving  plants  to  stimulate  our 
souls?     We  don't  starve  cats  and  dogs." 

"  The  pathetic  fallacy  it's  called,  I  believe,"  he  an- 
swered. "  We  see  a  dwarfed  fir  a  century  old,  and  it  tells 
us  of  strife  and  struggle  against  adversity.  It  is  trained, 
perhaps,  to  look  as  though  it  had  been  struck  by  lightning, 
and  it  bears  such  a  weight  of  affliction  in  its  branches,  that 
the  tiny  thing  typifies  the  whole  human  experience." 

"  A  sermon  in  a  flower-pot.  But  not  a  sermon  for  me. 
What  does  it  really  mean?  That  man  has  bullied  Nature 
for  a  century  and  turned  what  might  have  been  a  happy 


50  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

forest  tree  into  a  miserable  little  object  hanging  with  one 
root  in  the  air  over  the  side  of  a  bit  of  porcelain." 

"  How  brutally  rational !  You  know  something  about 
plants?" 

"  Nothing  at  all,  nothing  at  all,"  she  answered  hur- 
riedly ;  "  but  of  course  everybody's  seen  these  things  — 
these  tortured  things,  clinging  to  dear  life  by  their  eye- 
lids." 

"  Such  solemn  atoms,  rightly  understood,  mean  such  a 
lot,"  he  argued. 

"I  know  just  what  they  mean  and  I  hate  what  they 
mean.  I'm  a  Northern  vandal,  and  I  don't  love  these  ema- 
ciated, Japanese  masterpieces  a  bit.  I  know  it's  subtle 
and  full  of  soul  to  make  a  mountain  on  a  flower-pot,  and  a 
countryside  on  a  tea-tray,  and  put  little,  withered,  blasted 
plants  in  just  the  right  places.  I  know  the  artists  who 
do  these  things  are  faithful  and  great;  but  I  hate  thirst 
and  starvation  myself  —  and  root  pruning  and  discipline 
generally.  And  so  do  the  plants.  I  know  what  they  feel 
about  it  well  enough,  because  I've  been  root-pruned  and 
starved  and  made  to  live  upside  down  myself  in  my  time. 
And  I've  got  no  use  for  the  spiritual  significance  of  it  all, 
or  the  Wisdom  of  the  East  either ;  and  if  I  had  a  garden, 
I'd  let  things  grow  as  they  liked  and  make  them  happy 
below  ground,  so  that  they  should  be  lovely  above  it.  So 
there !  " 

"  I  never !  "  said  Mistley. 

"  I  want  the  joy  of  life,  I  suppose,  while  I'm  young 
enough  to  feel  the  joy  of  life.  Beauty  is  a  relative  term. 
Probably  I  haven't  got  a  soul." 

"  You've  got  a  soul  all  right." 

"  We've  all  got  lots  of  things  we  don't  bother  about 
while  we're  young  —  joints  and  eyes  and  livers  and  hearts. 
We  shall  know  we've  got  them  soon  enough.  I  came  to 
Colchester  to  give  my  soul  a  rest." 

"  Jolly  sensible.  Nothing  wants  more  rest  than  a  man's 
soul." 


THE  DWARF  FIR  TREES  51 

*'  Except  a  woman's.     I  love  these  happy,  little  trees." 

"  Choose  six  for  me,  Mrs.  Brown." 

"All  different?" 

"  Yes  —  they'd  better  be." 

She  obeyed,  and  gave  her  reasons  for  her  choice.  The 
man  began  to  find  himself  forgetting  time  and  space. 
Her  beauty,  already  exaggerated  in  his  eyes,  fascinated 
him ;  her  point  of  view  rather  harmonised  with  his  own. 
He  became  very  interested  and  desirous  to  know  more 
about  her.  The  glimpses  were  exciting.  She  gave  him 
more.  She  had  taken  two  rooms  with  Mrs.  Hempson  at 
Mile  End,  and  was  going  to  work  very  hard  indeed. 

"  D'you  think  one  of  the  picture  shops  here  would  let 
me  give  a  little  exhibition  presently  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I'll  inquire  about  it,  if  you'll  let  me." 

"  How  good  of  you.  But  not  yet.  I  must  paint  thirty 
or  forty  pictures  first.  I'm  afraid  my  way  of  painting 
won't  be  much  good  here." 

"  You  must  educate  Colchester  up  to  your  way." 

"  You  can't  do  that.  Still,  if  I  can  get  just  a  few  to 
believe  in  me " 

"  I'm  certain  you  will.  You'll  have  to  make  some  con- 
cessions though.     You  know  what  people  call  '  finish.'  " 

"  Only  too  well,"  she  said. 

An  hour  was  gone,  and  Mistley  left  her  to  return  to  her 
picture  alone.     He  marked  the  plants  that  she  had  chosen. 

"  They're  going  to  Devonshire,"  he  told  her. 

"  Lucky  little  beggars,"  said  Aveline.  "  I  wish  I  was 
going  with  them.     I've  been  once  and  loved  it." 

"  Why  did  you  come  here,  then  ?  " 

"  For  no  reason  in  particular.  After  my  husband  died, 
I  was  free  to  go  where  I  pleased.  And  Colchester  just 
came  into  my  head.  And  when  anything  comes  into  my 
head  I  generally  do  it ;  and  when  a  place  comes  into 
my  head,  I  generally  go  there  —  if  I  can." 

"  It  shows  you  only  think  of  frightfully  innocent  things, 
if  you  can  always  do  them." 


52  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"Doesn't  it?" 

"  Have  you  ever  been  abroad?  " 

"  Never ;  but  I'm  going." 

"  You'll  be  so  happy  in  Italy  some  day,  that  you  won't 
come  home  again,"  he  prophesied. 

"  You  came  home  again." 

"  How  d'you  know  I  went  ?  " 

"  Because  you  speak  so  positively  about  it." 

"  I  have  been,  and  mean  to  go  again." 

"  Heavenly  gardens  there?  " 

"  Heavenly  —  and  pictures." 

"To  be  painted?" 

"  Already  painted  and  to  be  painted  —  by  you,  per- 
haps. I  must  go.  They'll  wonder  what  has  become  of 
me." 

At  the  end  of  that  day  there  came  a  strange,  wistful, 
not  unpleasant  feeling  into  Mistley  which  was  new  to  him. 
He  had  never  loved  anything  but  his  art,  and  held  that  no 
artist  should  marry;  for  he  believed  that  to  the  artist  a 
wife  can  only  be  a  mistress. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE    DOCTOR 

Billy  Ambrose  and  Emma  Darcy  were  walking  down  the 
High  Street  of  Colchester  regardless  of  the  attention  they 
commanded.  Their  fame  was  of  long  standing  and  they 
were  indifferent  to  it.  Youngsters,  greatly  daring,  would 
sneak  close,  squeal  "  Marmalade  Emma !  "  and  then  fly  to 
safe  distance.  But  the  hawk  does  not  disdain  the  protest- 
ing swallows  more  than  they  the  insulting  boys.  They 
strolled  along,  looked  into  the  shop  windows,  and  pro- 
ceeded upon  their  way. 

This  man  and  woman  seldom  differed,  but  now  they  did. 
Opposite  the  Moot  Hall  stood  a  handsome  motor-car,  and 
William,  recognising  it  for  his  brother's,  crossed  the  road. 

"  Good  alive !  don't  you  go  over  there !  "  said  Emma, 
trying  to  hold  him  back.  "  You'd  best  the  Owd  Un,  we  all 
know ;  but  you  can't  best  him." 

"  Let  go,  Emma,"  he  answered. 

"  Don't  be  talking,  and  come  along  to  Dr.  Carbonell," 
she  said.  "  You  very  nilly  choked  wi'  coughing  last  night, 
and  you're  drunk  now." 

"  I'm  going  to  tell  the  bloke  I'm  ill  and  see  how  he  takes 
it,"  declared  William. 

But  the  car  was  empty,  and  so  he  began  to  talk  to  the 
driver  —  a  young  man  who  became  very  self-conscious  and 
blushed  at  Billy's  raillery. 

"  Why  haven't  you  joined  the  arm^^  you  lazy  dog?  "  he 
asked.  "  There  3'ou  sit  in  slave's  clothes  with  a  crest  on 
your  buttons,  which  your  master's  got  no  right  to  sport, 
and  lead  the  life  of  a  louse,  instead  of  being  a  free  man  in 
khaki,  fighting  for  your  country." 

"  They  won't  pass  me,"  said  the  j'outh. 

53 


54  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  I'd  go  to-morrow,"  declared  Billy,  for  the  benefit  of  a 
few  gaping  hearers,  "  if  it  weren't  for  Marmalade  Emma 
here.     But  what's  going  to  come  of  her  if  I  go?  " 

"  They'd  lock  her  up,  where  she  ought  to  be,"  said  a 
man. 

"  You  dog !  "  answered  Billy.  "  If  I  wasn't  weak  as  a 
rat  with  coughing  all  night,  I'd  grind  your  nose  in  the 
dirt  for  that." 

The  other  retorted,  and  Emma  tried  in  vain  to  get  Wil- 
liam along. 

"  I  don't  go  till  I've  seen  my  brother,  the  Mayor  of  Col- 
chester," he  declared.  "  The  poor  fellow  don't  see  enough 
of  me,  or  he'd  have  more  sense." 

People  began  to  collect  and  a  policeman  appeared  to 
move  them  along.  Out  of  respect  for  his  brother,  William 
was  treated  more  leniently  in  Colchester  than  might  have 
been  the  case  under  other  circumstances.  Now,  however, 
he  was  told  to  be  off. 

Then  Parkyn  Ambrose  appeared. 

The  two  men  were  alike  save  that  intemperance  and  ex- 
posure disfigured  the  bearded  features  of  the  tramp,  while 
his  brother's  clean-shaven  face  was  healthy  and  plump. 
He  flushed  rosy  at  sight  of  William. 

"  I  beg  you  —  I  beg  you "  he  said. 

"Have  no  fear,  old  boy  —  only  I  just  thought  I'd  see 
how  you  liked  being  Mayor,  and  if  you  were  going  to  in- 
vite me  to  the  Oyster  Banquet  presently." 

"  Take  him  away,  woman,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose.  "  I 
can  do  nothing  for  him." 

"  I  am  taking  him  so  fast  as  I  can,"  answered  Emma. 
"  He's  ill  —  he's  got  a  crool  cough,  and  I'm  taking  him  to 
doctor  —  only  he  won't  come." 

"  I'm  coming,  I'm  coming.  Don't  you  think  I'm  going 
to  die,  Parkyn,  old  sport !  Far  from  it,  my  poor  fellow. 
I  shall  live  till  you're  under  the  daisies  —  oh,  yes,  I  shall, 
and  then  I  shall  say,  '  Lord,  lettest  thou  thy  servant 
depart  in  peace ! '  " 


THE  DOCTOR  55 

Mr.  Ambrose  rolled  his  eyes  like  a  frightened  bullock. 
He  was  terribly  distressed.     He  turned  to  Emma. 

"  Take  him  to  the  hospital  and  say  I  sent  him." 

Then  the  master  of  "  Colneside  "  attempted  to  get  into 
his  car ;  but  Billy  suddenly  sat  down  in  the  open  door  and 
barred  the  way. 

"Hospital  —  eh?  You're  a  brother  to  be  proud  of! 
Oh,  you  good,  Christian  man !  If  you  was  ill,  you'd  send 
for  half  Harley  Street ;  but  me  —  you'd  let  me  rot  in  a 
blasted  hospital,  wouldn't  you.?  and  give  the  nurse  a  little 
bottle  of  something  short  to  drop  in  my  physic,  if  you 
dared !  " 

Mr.  Ambrose  beckoned  the  policeman  who  stood  close  at 
hand. 

"  Move  him,"  he  said.  "  I'm  sorr}^,  William  Ambrose, 
but  I  have  no  choice.     This  is  outrageous." 

"  Take  me  for  a  joy  ride,  there's  an  old  dear,"  shouted 
Billy.  Then  he  found  himself  picked  up  and  handed  over 
to  Emma. 

He  laughed  boisterously  and  waved  his  hand  to  his 
brother. 

"  You  go  to  the  hospital  and  tell  'em  to  hang  out  the 
flags  —  I'm  coming !  "  he  bawled  after  the  departing  car. 

Then,  his  outrage  accomplished,  he  calmed  down  and 
followed  Emma.  They  plunged  into  a  narrow  side  street 
and  the  incident  ended  so  far  as  the  public  was  concerned. 
But  the  woman  blamed  him. 

"  You  didn't  ought,"  said  Emma.  "  He's  all-powerful 
now,  being  Mayor,  and  he  might  do  you  an  injury." 

Billy  coughed  violently  and  then  responded. 

"  My  dear  child,  it's  good  for  the  poor  wretch  to  be 
shook  up  now  and  again,"  he  said.  "  It  reminds  him  he's 
only  a  mortal  man  after  all,  and  not  a  fat  angel  squatting 
on  the  footstool  of  God.  I'm  his  skeleton  at  the  feast  of 
life.  I'm  sent  here  for  his  good.  The  poor  creature  is 
fairly  itching  to  be  at  my  death-bed,  but  he  shan't :  I'll  be 
at  his.'» 


56  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

The  prophecy  cheered  Billy,  and  he  proceeded  quite 
amiably  beside  Emma.  Past  Trinity  Church  they  went, 
where  the  little,  flowery  graveyard  lay  in  peace  amid  the 
hum  and  bustle  of  the  living ;  and  then,  opposite  the  tower 
of  early  English  brick  and  stone,  over  against  that  little 
lancet  door  so  fair  to  see,  the  tramps  stopped  and  knocked 
at  the  entrance  of  a  small  Georgian  house. 

They  asked  for  Dr.  Carbonell,  and  the  maidservant,  re- 
garding them  suspiciously,  explained  that  her  master  did 
not  see  patients. 

"  Not  common  people,  we  know,"  said  Emma,  "  but 
he'll  see  us." 

William  chuckled. 

"  That's  right.  Tell  him  JMr.  Billy  Ambrose  is  on  the 
door-step  and  the  doctor  will  bid  me  come  in.  And  don't 
fear  for  the  umbrellas.  We've  left  ours  at  home  on  the 
grand  piano." 

The  maid  showed  uneasiness  and  departed  hurriedly. 

" '  Father,  forgive  her,  for  she  knows  not  what  she 
does,'  "  said  William. 

A  moment  later  they  were  told  that  the  doctor  would 
see  them,  and  they  were  conducted  to  his  study.  The 
room  was  mellow  in  colour  and  full  of  books,  and  stained 
with  long  years  of  tobacco  smoke.  It  contained  works  of 
art  —  little  marble  copies  of  Praxiteles  —  his  "  Faun  " 
and  the  "  Cnidian  Venus  " —  the  "  Penseroso  "  of  Michael 
Angelo,  and  a  copy  in  bronze  of  the  famous  "  Mercury," 
from  Naples. 

Before  his  desk  sat  Dr.  Carbonell,  an  old  man  with 
clear-cut  features  and  pale  complexion.  He  was  of  the 
colour  of  his  smoke-stained  marbles  —  a  hue  of  old  ivory. 
But  his  eyes  were  bright  and  blue  behind  his  big  spectacles 
in  their  tortoiseshell  frame.  On  his  head  was  a  black  silk 
cap,  for  he  was  quite  bald.  Of  average  height,  he  was  thin 
in  person,  but  very  upright  for  an  old  man.  He  wore  a 
black  frock  coat,  grey  trousers  and  purple  slippers.  His 
tie  was  of  black  satin,  and  in  it  appeared  a  breast-pin 


THE  DOCTOR  57 

fashioned  of  flint  —  an  arrowhead  of  neolithic  man.  Dr. 
Carbonell  pushed  away  his  papers,  took  up  a  pipe  with  his 
left  hand  and  greeted  Emma  with  his  right.  Then  he 
shook  hands  with  Billy,  lighted  his  pipe,  and  bade  the 
visitors  be  seated. 

"  What  have  you  been  up  to  now,  William  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Sleeping  in  damp  hay,"  said  the  invalid.  "  At  least 
it  was  dry  when  we  retired ;  but  it  came  on  to  rain  while  we 
slept.  I'm  barking  like  a  dog,  and  I  believe  I'm  going  to 
have  appendicitis.     And  if  I  am,  I'd  better  know  it." 

"  Everything's  appendicitis  now,"  said  Emma.  "  Where 
does  it  come  from.  Doctor  .f*  " 

The  old  practitioner  was  one  of  Colchester's  heroes  — 
famous  and  admired.  There  were  whispers  that  the  free- 
dom of  the  borough  was  to  be  presented  to  him  in  consid- 
eration of  his  lifelong  labours  for  the  township.  His  ac- 
tivities ranged  over  many  interests.  He  was  a  bachelor 
and  alone  in  the  world ;  but  his  urbanity,  generosity,  and 
learning  made  him  many  friends.  Only  one  disability  led 
Colchester  to  view  him  with  uneasiness :  he  was  a  Free 
Thinker.  But  his  own  views  he  never  obtruded  unless 
challenged  to  do  so ;  then  he  did  not  hesitate  to  speak 
plainly. 

He  was  a  travelled  man,  and  his  experience  ranged  over 
Europe.  Locomotion  and  Celtic  pottery  he  claimed  for 
his  special  subjects.  He  had  ridden  in  Brunei's  pneu- 
matic railway  and  had  flown  in  an  aeroplane. 

"  Appendicitis  is  a  thing  of  yesterday,  Emma,"  he  said. 
"  It  came  in  with  boracic  acid  and  there's  a  close  link  be- 
tween them.  I  shan't  live  to  see  it  established,  and  my 
chemistry  days  are  over,  though  if  I  were  a  young  man, 
I'd  set  myself  to  the  problem  and  prove  I'm  right.  In  my 
youth,  the  microscope  had  no  part  in  therapeutics  and  the 
germ  theory  for  practical  purposes  did  not  exist.  I've 
cut  off  many  a  leg  and  arm  without  anjesthetic,  or  anti- 
septic either,  so  you  may  judge  I  date  back  to  the  early 
Victorians.     And  very  good  times,  too.     We  were  more 


58  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

sober-minded  then,  and  had  much  better  ideas  of  the  sig- 
nificance of  pleasure  and  the  value  of  a  holiday." 

"  We're  the  Lord's  children,  and  a  father  likes  to  see 
his  little  ones  playing,"  said  William.  "  And  you're  ray 
side  and  always  have  been,  Doc." 

"  I'm  not  your  side  at  all.  For  a  man  to  lead  your  life 
is  a  social  scandal." 

"  It's  a  protest,"  explained  Billy.  "  If  my  brother  had 
been  a  possible  person,  I  should  have  lived  differently ;  but 
my  better  nature  rose  at  his  dreadful  goodness  from  the 
first.  I'm  a  saint  compared  to  him.  What  d'you  think 
he  said  not  ten  minutes  ago?  Told  me  to  go  in  the 
hospital !  " 

"  There's  an  ancient  Roman  joke,  that  when  a  wine- 
bibber  hanged  himself  the  people  said,  '  There  hangs  a 
wine-skin,  not  a  man  ' ;  and  when  we  bury  you,  we  shall 
write  on  your  grave,  '  Here  lies  a  beer-barrel.'  That'll  be 
the  end  of  you,  if  you  don't  mend." 

"  A  whisky-barrel,  more  like,  poor  darling,"  said  Emma. 

William  took  off  his  coat  and  shirt  and  submitted  to  an 
examination. 

"  You  might  save  yourself  even  now,"  declared  the 
physician,  tapping  the  patient's  hairy  chest  with  the  end 
of  his  stethoscope.  "  There's  no  disease,  only  a  general 
weakness  and  malaise  from  insufficient  food  and  bad  cloth- 
ing. You're  tough  enough,  thanks  to  living  in  the  open 
air.  If  you'd  lead  a  decent  life  and  drop  the  drink,  you 
might  be  a  respectable  member  of  society  in  six  months." 

"  Game's  not  worth  the  candle,"  said  William.  "  I 
don't  want  to  live  to  be  a  hundred,  like  you're  going  to  be. 
When  first  Emma  joined  me,  she'd  got  a  foggy  idea  that 
we'd  save  each  other.  Hadn't  you,  Emma?  But  when  I 
showed  her  what  '  salvation  '  meant,  her  fine  siprit  rose 
against  it." 

William  helped  himself  from  an  open  tobacco  pouch  on 
Dr.  Carbonell's  desk.  Then  he  handed  it  to  Emma,  who 
also  filled  her  pipe. 


THE  DOCTOR  59 

The  doctor  was  writing. 

"  I'm  giving  him  some  physic  and  some  gargle ;  and 
mind  he  uses  it,  Emma,"  he  said. 

"  A  pity  you  never  found  a  woman  such  as  this  to  be 
your  handmaiden  and  the  joy  of  your  Hfe,  Doc,"  said 
Billy,  waving  his  hand  towards  Miss  Darcy. 

"  He  had  a  mind  above  us  females,"  said  Emma.  "  He 
didn't  want  us  for  his  pastime,  because  he  was  always  after 
books  and  curiosities." 

"  There's  no  curiosity  that's  a  patch  on  a  woman,"  de- 
clared William,  "  and,  complete  as  he  thinks  himself.  Doc 
would  have  been  much  more  complete  if  he'd  added  a 
live  one  to  his  collection." 

"And  how  the  mischief  d'you  know  he  didn't?  "  asked 
Emma.  "  It  ain't  every  man  and  woman  that  hops  about 
together,  like  a  pair  of  bullfinches,  same  as  you  and  me  do. 
Of  course  the  married  ones  do  it  —  to  save  their  faces  so 
often  as  not.  But  because  a  man  haven't  got  a  woman  on 
his  arm  in  the  street,  or  at  the  foot  of  his  table  at  home,  it 
don't  follow  he  haven't  got  one  in  his  heart." 

The  old  physician  finished,  blotted  the  prescription,  and 
handed  it  to  Emma. 

"  And  I  wish  you'd  tell  Billy  that  he  must  sleep  in  housen 
and  not  under  the  stars  no  more,"  said  she.  "  He'll  never 
get  right,  not  even  with  your  medicine,  if  he  doesn't  care." 

"  Are  you  sleeping  under  hedges  now?  " 

"  Not  for  the  minute.  We  are  along  with  my  brother, 
Tom  Darcy,  him  that's  a  sailor  on  the  Oyster  Company's 
Peewit.  He's  got  a  very  nice  house  at  Brittlesea,  and  he 
ought  to  understand  our  ways,  being  a  bit  of  a  gipsy,  of 
course,  same  as  me.  But  William's  so  restive.  He  says 
he  can't  sleep  under  a  ceiling,  because  he  always  fears  'twill 
fall  atop  of  him  —  silliness,  I  call  it." 

"  What  I  want,"  said  Billy,  "  is  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  a  rest  cure." 

He  winked  at  Emma,  for  he  knew  Carbonell  felt  rather 
strongly  on  the  subject. 


60  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  You're  trying  to  pull  my  leg,  William,  but  you  won't," 
the  doctor  said.  "  A  work  cure's  what  you  want,  my 
friend.  If  we  gave  our  fools  hard  labour  as  well  as  our- 
knaves  —  but  nothing  can  be  done  until  we  make  idleness 
a  crime  against  the  State  and  waste  of  time  an  indictable 
offence." 

"  I  hope  I  may  not  be  spared  to  see  it,"  said  William, 
"  for  it  would  mean  the  triumph  of  everything  that's  busy 
and  small  and  mean  and  peddling.  It  would  mean  that 
worms  like  my  brother  had  conquered  the  world,  and  that 
the  free  spirits,  like  me,  had  no  place  left  for  the  sole  of 
their  feet." 

"  Your  brother's  a  good  man.     You're  not." 

"  Good  for  what.''  You  can't  tell  me  —  nobody  can  tell 
me ;  and  none  knows  better  than  you  that  he's  tinkling 
brass  and  as  empty  as  a  drum." 

"  You'll  never  make  me  despise  your  brother,  William. 
I  respect  him,  and  if  he  hasn't  got  the  art  to  win  people, 
that's  his  misfortune,  not  his  fault.  Now  be  off.  Get  this 
made  up,  Emma  Darcy,  and  see  he  uses  it." 

Dr.  Carbonell  gave  Emma  the  prescription  and  five 
shillings  with  it. 

"  I'd  do  as  much  for  you  if  the  cases  were  reversed," 
said  Billy ;  "  and  as  to  work,  don't  think  it's  a  prejudice  on 
my  part.  Some  are  born  to  work  and  love  it  from  their 
youth  up ;  but  such  as  me  are  in  another  category,  and  the 
community  can  drive  us  and  bore  us  and  harry  us ;  but  it 
can't  make  us  work." 

"  You  did  work  once  in  the  dim  past,"  said  Dr.  Car- 
bonell. 

"  As  a  freeman  of  Brittlesea,  I  did  a  bit  of  work  on  the 
water,"  admitted  William. 

"  You  can't  do  better  than  try  it  again,  then." 

"  When  the  oysters  come  in  season,"  suggested  Emma. 
*'  There's  always  easy  work  going  then,  and  you  never 
mind  getting  up  in  the  early  morning." 

"  If  I  had  to  get  up  in  the  early  morning,  I  should  mind 


THE  DOCTOR  61 

it  very  much.  Why,  if  my  fellow-creatures  rose  and  or- 
dered me,  on  pain  of  punishment,  to  drink  two  quarts  of 
beer  a  day,  I'd  very  likely  turn  teetotaller  on  the  instant. 
I've  got  the  stuff  of  martyrs  in  me  —  if  it  was  worth 
while." 

"  Come,  my  handsome,"  said  Emma  to  Billy.  "  We've 
took  up  enough  of  the  doctor's  time,  and  may  God  send  a 
blessing  on  the  noble  creature,  I'm  sure." 

Then  they  left  him. 


CHAPTER  VII 

ON    THE    PEEWIT 

Mrs.  Hempson  was  a  practical  widow  of  middle  age,  and 
when  her  son  returned  from  his  costly  failure  in  China 
empty-handed,  she  supported  him  under  his  reverse  and 
sought  means  to  tide  herself  over  the  period  during  which 
he  was  out  of  work. 

She  explained  the  situation  to  Aveline  when  the  artist 
went  to  see  Mrs.  Hempson's  two  spare  rooms. 

"  Every  little  helps,"  she  said.  "  My  son,  Andrew,  has 
been  under  the  weather  of  late  and  had  bad  fortune.  He 
thinks  to  enlist,  but  there's  no  immediate  call  for  him  to  do 
so,  though  if  this  misbegotten  war  goes  on  much  longer,  no 
doubt  he  will  join  up.  And  meanwhile  I'm  very  glad  to  let 
my  two  spare  rooms." 

They  suited  the  new-comer  well  enough,  and  now  she  had 
settled  in  and  was  painting  steadily.  But  Aveline  quickly 
learned  that  her  pictures  would  not  keep  her.  The  times 
were  bad  for  art,  and  her  work  made  no  appeal  to  Colches- 
ter. Thanks  to  Mistley's  good  offices,  friendly  stationers 
and  a  picture  dealer  were  willing  to  display  the  pictures, 
but  those  of  the  inhabitants  who  claimed  regard  for  such 
things  held  Aveline's  productions  unfinished.  She  sold  the 
drawing  of  Mr.  Ambrose's  lily  pond,  and  the  purchaser  was 
Mrs.  Ambrose,  who  extolled  the  picture  and  desired  Ave- 
line's acquaintance;  but  as  yet  she  had  not  met  her 
patron. 

And  now,  having  put  an  advertisement  into  a  local  jour- 
nal, she  hoped  for  a  pupil  or  two, 

Peter  Mistley  was  gone  to  Devonshire,  and  she  found 
that  he  made  a  little  gap  in  her  life  already.     She  discov- 

62 


ON  THE  PEEWIT  63 

ered  herself  often  thinking  about  him,  and  she  was  pleased 
when  an  unexpected  letter  came  from  him.  There  was  lit- 
tle in  it  save  a  long  description  of  the  garden  upon  which 
he  found  himself  engaged ;  but  he  asked  her  a  question  and 
said  that  he  would  be  infinitely  obliged  to  her  if  she  could 
go  to  the  water  gardens  at  "  Colneside  "  and  tell  him  the 
order  of  things  at  a  certain  point  in  them.  "  I  ought  to 
know  it  by  heart,"  he  wrote,  "  but  it  happens  that  I  forget 
just  what  I  want  to  remember.  Nobody  at  the  nursery 
can  tell  me  exactly  what  I  want  to  know  as  well  as  you 
could,  so  I  venture  to  ask  this  favour."  He  praised 
Devonshire  and  hoped  that  she  was  selling  her  pictures. 
There  was  nothing  more  in  the  note,  yet  to  Aveline  it 
seemed  inspired  with  that  unconscious  intimacy  ever  exist- 
ing between  artist  and  artist. 

She  did  his  bidding  and  made  a  little  drawing  of  the 
place  he  wanted  —  a  sketch  in  his  own  manner,  indicating 
the  plants.  With  the  picture  she  sent  a  letter  saying  that 
Colchester  connoisseurs  Avere  not  exactly  tumbling  over 
each  other  to  buy  her  pictures,  but  that  she  lived  in  hope 
and  was  very  busy  and  more  in  love  with  Essex  than  ever. 

Then  came  the  day  with  Margery  Mayhew,  and  Aveline 
put  temporary  cares  from  her  mind  very  willingly  and 
gave  herself  to  her  friend.  She  had  a  child's  power  of 
throwing  herself  into  the  present  hour,  to  the  obliteration 
of  past  and  future ;  she  also  had  a  child's  faith  in  the  great 
to-morrows.  They  were  going  to  Brightlingsea  to  visit  the 
estuary  with  Margery's  uncle,  Mr.  Samuel  Mushet. 

Brightlingsea  is  a  busy  hamlet,  from  whose  main  street 
of  little  houses  and  little  shops  spread  arteries  to  east  and 
west.  Southward  a  three-cornered  green  terminates  the 
township,  and  northward,  nigh  the  railway  station,  are 
other  open  spaces  and  plantations  of  trees.  The  place 
grows  steadily,  and  new  buildings  rise  and  thrust  forward 
through  its  flowery  skirts  to  the  market  gardens  beyond. 
But  at  the  Hard  beats  the  pulse  of  Brightlingsea,  where 
her  freemen  pursue  their  business  ashore  and  afloat. 


64  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

The  tide  was  at  ebb  when  Aveline  and  Margery  reached 
the  pier,  and  the  mud-coloured  waters  were  swept  by  a 
strong  and  stormy  wind.  The  estuary  opened  west,  then 
wound  away  to  the  south  round  a  low  bank  crowned  by  a 
Martello  tower.  Green  meadows  ran  along  this  region, 
and  between  it  and  the  Hard  there  lay  half  a  hundred  ves- 
sels —  oyster  dredgers,  smacks  and  ketches,  a  steam  pin- 
nace or  two,  and  a  little,  beamy  paddle-boat,  the  Peewit, 
to  which  the  women  were  bound.  She  rode  two  hundred 
yards  from  shore,  and  Margery  signalled  to  her  with  a 
white  handkerchief.  Along  the  shore  to  right  and  left 
rose  a  wilderness  of  wooden  shanties  and  slips  for  vessels. 
Ships'  chandlers  and  fish  supplies,  boat  builders  and  marine 
stores  clustered  together,  and  the  reek  of  fish  and  tarred 
hemp  was  brushed  to  Aveline's  nostrils.  These  places  at 
high  tide  stood  with  their  steps  submerged,  while  dotted 
amongst  them  rose  the  masts  and  cordage  of  dismantled 
vessels  and  many  a  yacht,  high  and  dry,  with  naked  sticks 
and  body  wrapped  in  tarpaulin.  For  the  war  had  shut 
down  on  sport,  and  the  vessels  of  pleasure  now  in  commis- 
sion were  doing  the  country's  work. 

Away  over  Mersea  Isle  to  the  westward  swept  up  a  sum- 
mer storm.  Darker  it  grew  with  a  noble  welter  of  thunder- 
clouds piled  to  the  zenith  and  gashed  with  white  and 
crooked  lightning.  Earth  and  water  seemed  to  shrink  to  a 
mere  insignificant  huddle  beneath  the  immensity  of  the 
clouds.  Their  billows  rolled  out  in  white  and  grey  above 
the  purple  beneath ;  and  then  the  storm  climbed  upwards 
to  smother  the  loftier  strata,  and  great  fans  and  moving 
arms  of  light  broke  the  darkness  and  waved  across  it  wild 
signals  from  the  foundered  sun.  Half  a  gale  of  wind, 
freshening  for  five  minutes  to  a  whole  gale,  burst  on  Bright- 
lingsea,  and  sent  the  life  of  the  Hard  flying  to  cover.  Veils 
of  heavy  rain  softened  the  hard  gloom  of  the  sky ;  thunder 
rattled,  and  a  crash  of  hail  beat  on  the  corrugated  iron 
of  the  shanties.  The  waters  of  the  estuary  were  roughed, 
and   a  sudden  sea   set   the  anchored  vessels,  great  and 


ON  THE  PEEWIT  65 

small,  rolling  and  dancing.  One  laden,  open  boat,  lying 
unmanned  and  moored  to  a  larger,  took  a  grey  sea  over 
her  weather  bow,  shuddered,  and  sank.  Thin  shouts  and 
the  bob  of  hurrying  heads  came  from  the  parent  ketch; 
but  their  boat  was  gone,  and  only  a  pair  of  oars  and  a 
fish-box  danced  where  she  had  ridden.  Smoke  flew  from 
the  steamers,  and  a  dozen  sailing  craft,  heeling  to  the 
wind,  came  up  with  crackling  canvas  bows  on  to  the  squall. 
But  fifty  dun-coloured,  lumpish  monsters,  on  which  stood 
or  sat  some  hundreds  of  dun-coloured  men,  troubled  not  at 
the  weather.  The  air-tight,  iron  things  danced  to  the 
sudden  seas,  and  their  crews  shouted  and  toiled  at  their 
endless  business  of  making  and  unmaking.  For  they  were 
military  pontoons,  and  the  Royal  Engineers  from  Eng- 
land's newly  made  armies  came  daily  to  the  waters  to 
learn  the  business  of  bridging  estuary  and  river.  Big 
men  they  were  —  some  in  jack  boots,  some  in  canvas  and 
indiarubber  slippers  —  and  they  toiled  daily  half  in  the 
tide  and  half  out  of  it,  wet  as  water  voles,  and  as  indiffer- 
ent to  wind  and  weather.  Stolidly  they  learned  their 
business :  a  corps  composed  from  commanding  officer  to 
"  sapper  "  of  men  specially  trained.  They  were  mostly 
fitters  or  carpenters  by  trade. 

Few  of  the  dark,  tanned  faces  that  Aveline  studied  were 
intellectual,  but  most  were  intelligent.  The  strength  and 
size  of  the  men  chiefly  impressed  her.  The  greater  num- 
ber had  no  visible  thought  beyond  the  business  of  the 
minute  —  the  steering  and  manipulating  of  their  heavy 
craft,  the  linking  and  unlinking  of  the  bridges ;  but  here 
and  there  among  them  and  the  young  officers  directing 
them,  the  artist  saw  a  face  with  fire  and  spirit  and  imag- 
ination mirrored  therein. 

"  They  are  dreaming  of  doing  their  work  again  on  the 
Rhine,"  she  said  to  Margery. 

"  I  hope  there  are  dry  clothes  and  hot  dinners  waiting 
for  them  ashore,"  answered  the  other. 

Soon  the  weather  brightened  and  a  drift  of  sunlit  cloud 


66  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

flung  a  silvery  dance  of  brightness  over  the  water  and 
reflected  itself  upon  sand  and  stone.  The  people  crept 
out  again  —  first  ragamuffins,  to  play  with  the  weed  and 
sea  life  at  water's  edge,  then  the  fishermen  and  longshore 
folk.  A  sentry,  with  glittering  bayonet,  tramped  up  and 
down  before  the  pontoon  landing-places ;  but  now  he  was 
relieved  and  a  dry  lad  took  his  place.  The  wet  man's 
khaki  had  turned  to  dull  brown.  Aloft  the  sky  gaped  into 
great  patches  of  blue ;  the  sun  shone  on  the  reeking  world 
and  the  wind  fell  suddenly.  A  steam  rose  above  the  Hard 
and  crept  in  little  curls  over  the  beach. 

"  Now  they'll  come  for  us,"  said  Margery ;  and  by  the 
time  they  had  returned  to  the  pier-head,  a  boat  pulled  by 
a  solitary  rower  danced  out  from  the  side  of  the  Peewit 
and  soon  ran  alongside  the  jetty. 

A  young,  fair  man,  in  a  tarpaulin  hat,  jack  boots  and  a 
blue  jersey,  rowed  it,  and  Margery  welcomed  him. 

"  Good-morning,  Teddy,"  she  said,  then  turned  to  Ave- 
line  and  introduced  the  sailor. 

"  This  is  my  cousin,  Teddy  Mushet  —  the  son  of  Uncle 
Samuel  on  the  Peewit,"  she  explained. 

"  Squally  weather,  but  you  ladles  will  be  all  right 
aboard,"  declared  Teddy. 

He  was  a  big  fellow  with  broad  shoulders,  a  large,  sim- 
ple face,  and  gentle  grey  eyes. 

He  spread  his  jacket  inside  out  for  them  to  sit  upon, 
then  rowed,  with  a  strong,  slow  stroke,  away  and  soon 
reached  the  Peewit.  The  little  steamer  had  cast  off  and 
was  already  moving  when  they  came  alongside.  Hands 
were  extended  to  the  women,  and  they  found  themselves  in 
a  wide  deck  aft,  while  the  boat  went  astern  to  the  length 
of  her  painter  and  rolled  along  after  them  in  the  white 
wake  of  the  steamer. 

The  Peewit  churned  her  way  through  the  harbour,  then 
got  clear  of  the  shipping  and  headed  round  the  mud  flats 
and  the  Martello  tower  towards  East  Mersea. 


ON  THE  PEEWIT  67 

There  were  a  dozen  men  upon  her  and  Margery  knew 
half  of  them.  She  greeted  first  the  skipper  of  the  little 
steamer. 

"  Good-morning,  Mr.  Rebow,"  she  said.  "  This  is  Mrs. 
Brown,  who  wants  to  see  the  Peewit  and  hear  about  the 
oysters." 

Saul  Rebow  valued  himself  on  his  command.  He  was 
very  thin,  very  tall,  and  very  hairy.  He  had  a  high- 
pitched  voice,  and  of  his  face,  so  clothed  was  it  in  rough, 
grey  hair,  that  one  saw  little  but  his  brown  eyes  and 
round,  heavy  nose. 

Behind  his  back  the  master  of  the  Peewit  was  called 
"  Old  Tell-yer-fer-wh}',"  owing  to  a  didactic  habit  of  giv- 
ing reasons  for  everything.  He  argued,  justly,  that 
nought  happened  without  a  reason;  but  he  went  beyond 
this  safe  ground  and  himself  claimed  perilous  heights  of 
knowledge  that  solved  most  human  problems. 

"  We  shall  open  your  eyes,  Mrs.  Brown,"  he  said,  "  and 
show  you  what's  under  the  water  and  what's  above  it." 

"  I've  seen  what's  above  it  already,"  declared  the  vis- 
itor.    "  Never  was  such  a  glorious  sky." 

"  Yes  —  owing  to  the  thunder  in  the  elements,"  said 
Mr.  Rebow.  "  When  there's  electricity  in  the  air,  you  see 
the  clouds  drawn  together  by  the  electric  fluid;  and  when 
they  touch,  there's  a  great  volume  of  heat  given  off,  and 
heat  produces  both  noise  and  light,  so  you  get  the  light- 
ning first  and  the  thunder  afterwards." 

Margery's  uncle  was  a  different  type  of  man.  He 
greeted  the  girl  affectionately^  kissed  her,  and  then  wiping 
his  hands  on  a  lump  of  waste,  saluted  Aveline.  He  was 
clad  in  a  close  suit  of  brown  drill,  buttoned  up  to  his  neck, 
and  he  resembled  his  brother,  the  gardener,  though  of 
much  smaller  build.  His  beard  was  a  grizzled  red,  and 
his  heavy  ej'ebrows  hung  over  reddish-grey  eyes.  His 
nose  was  hooked  and  his  expression  kindly.  Mr.  Mushet's 
little  engine-room  lay  amidships,  and  from  it  an  iron  lad- 


68  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

der  descended  to  the  stokehole.  On  either  side,  under  the 
paddle-boxes,  a  red  wheel  beat  the  sea,  and  overhead  was 
Mr.  Rebow's  perch,  where  he  stood  at  his  helm. 

"  A  squally  day  and  plenty  of  rain  to  follow,"  said 
Samuel  Mushet.     "  How's  Uncle  Gregory,  Madge  ?  " 

"  He's  very  well  and  sent  you  his  respects,  and  I  was 
to  know  when  you're  coming  with  Aunt  Nancy  for  a  day 
with  us." 

"  I'm  coming,  certainly,"  said  the  engineer. 

"  But  you're  always  coming  and  never  come." 

"  You  must  fix  it  with  your  aunt.  I'm  very  hopeful  to 
come  next  month,  if  it  can  be  done." 

"  Not  sooner?  " 

"  No,  for  certain.  The  Peewit  goes  into  dry  dock  in  a 
fortnight's  time,  and  I  must  be  there.  Our  engines  are 
going  to  be  overhauled." 

There  came  a  signal  from  overhead. 

"  Now  the  dredges  are  going  out,  so  you'd  better  run 
aft  and  see  the  fun,"  said  Mr.  Mushet. 

They  left  him  and  went  to  the  broad  stern  of  the  boat, 
where  six  oyster  dredges  were  about  to  be  cast  into  the 
water.  They  were  of  steel  mesh  on  a  wooden  beam  —  the 
immemorial  pattern  of  the  oyster  dredge  that  has  changed 
not  through  centuries.  The  Peewit,  at  slow  speed, 
danced  a  little  in  the  lopping  sea.  Southerly  the  grey 
waters  stretched  to  a  sun-flash  on  the  horizon,  and  to 
the  east,  flat  Mersea  Island  lay,  clear-cut  in  shadow  and 
gleam  behind  the  mist  of  the  sea. 

The  dredges  splashed  overboard,  scratched  a  hundred 
yards  of  sea-bottom  and  were  hauled  again.  Aveline  and 
Margery  stood  beside  Teddy  Mushet  and  exclaimed  as  he 
emptied  his  net  upon  the  deck.  A  mass  of  strange  life 
was  tumbled  there,  and  from  the  shining  weed  and  shell 
hastened  long-legged,  green  and  brown  crabs  every  way 
as  fast  as  they  could  scuttle.  The  lucky  ones  found  chan- 
nels of  escape  and  fell  through  them  back  to  sea;  some, 
worthy  of  the  pot,  were  caught  and  flung  into  a  pail. 


ON  THE  PEEWIT  69 

Teddy  sorted  over  his  mass,  wherein  Nature  apparently 
desired  to  exhibit  all  the  strange  things  that  throve  under 
Colne  estuary.  There  were  adult  oysters,  which  he  threw 
aside,  and  then  came  matted  fingers  of  a  white,  squirting 
weed,  with  other  seaweeds  ambre  and  green  and  olive. 

"  Cat-tail,  we  call  that,"  said  Teddy.  "  We  like  to  see 
it,  because  where  that  does  well,  the  oysters  do  well, 
too." 

There  emerged  also  the  deadly  "  five-fingers,"  a  big 
starfish  which  preys  on  the  oysters ;  a  sea  hedgehog,  the 
enemy  of  the  infant  oysters ;  and  yet  another  foe  —  the 
tingle  whelk  —  with  a  hirsute  shell  and  an  evil  habit  of 
boring  into  the  oyster  and  devouring  it. 

"  All  this  dead  cockle-shell  is  called  '  culch,' "  said 
Teddy.  "  It's  brought  here  from  other  places  and  piled 
up  on  the  saltings  to  get  dry  and  sweet ;  then  we  shovel  it 
into  the  sea  over  the  layering  grounds,  so  that  when  the 
spat  goes  down,  it  finds  good  foothold.  The  spat's  the 
oyster  spawn ;  we're  on  the  look-out  for  this  year's  spat 
now,  and  hope  it  will  be  good.     These  are  young  oysters 

—  a  year  or  more  old." 

He  showed  them  splendid  clusters  of  brood  oysters 
clinging  to  the  culch.  They  bunched  out  upon  it,  as 
fungus  spreads  from  a  dying  tree.  Each  infant  oyster 
was  silver-bright  and  any  size  from  a  florin  to  a  shilling 

—  their  lustrous  nacre  as  yet  unstained. 

Mr.  Rebow  surrendered  the  wheel  to  his  mate  and 
came  aft.  In  his  hand  he  carried  a  large  magnifying 
glass. 

"Are  you  come  for  learning,  or  for  fun?"  he  asked 
the  girls. 

"  For "  began   Aveline ;  but   Margery,  who  knew 

Mr.  Rebow,  cut  her  short. 

"  For  learning,  Captain  Rebow,"  she  said. 

"  Then  I  can  tell  you  as  much  as  your  heads  can  hold 
for  the  minute,"  he  said.  "  This  is  the  time  for  the  spat, 
and  we're  on  the  look-out  for  it.     Given  sea  temperature 


70  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

of  sixty-four  degrees  in  early  spring,  we've  a  right  to  hope 
for  good  spat.  But  the  oyster's  worst  enemy  is  cold. 
Now  the  multitudes  of  the  spat,  every  speck  of  which  is  a 
fertilised  egg  of  the  oyster,  are  due.  The  oyster's  '  white 
sick  '  first,  as  we  say,  then  '  black  sick  ' ;  then  the  spat  is 
given  off  in  clouds  by  the  oysters,  and  it  floats  and  moves 
about  briskly  in  the  water  for  a  time;  but,  as  the  mantle 
develops,  each  speck  sinks  down  on  to  the  sea-bottom 
upon  the  dead  shell  we've  spread  there;  and  they  fasten 
on  by  their  heels  and  never  move  again,  till  the  dredge 
moves  them." 

"  What  a  dull  life,"  suggested  Aveline. 

Mr.  Rebow  stared  at  her. 

"  You  speak  as  a  human,"  he  said.  "  Their  lives  ain't 
more  dull  to  them  than  yours  is  to  you." 

"  What  with  the  tingles,  and  five-fingered  starfish,  and 
sea  hedgehogs,  I  suppose  they're  not,"  she  admitted. 

"  This  is  a  pocket  lens,"  continued  the  skipper,  "  and 
now  skilled  eyes  looking  on  the  culch  can  see  among  the 
spawn  of  other  creatures  —  American  limpets  and  whelks 
and  such-like  —  the  native  oysters  not  so  big  as  a  pin's 
head  yet." 

"  All  settling  down  to  the  business  of  growing  into  good 
oysters,"  said  Aveline. 

"  Exactly  so." 

He  examined  some  shell  and  presently  showed  them 
spat.     "  The  spat's  falling,"  he  said. 

"  Our  enemy  here,"  he  went  on,  "  is  the  Slipper  limpet 

—  these  ugly,  yellow  creatures  with  their  shells  all  massed 
in  lumps.  They'd  smother  the  oysters  and  fill  the  whole 
estuary  if  we  didn't  fight  'em  every  hour  of  every  day. 
They  breed  like  the  pestilence,  and  we  destroy  thousands 
of  tons  in  a  year.  I  can  remember  a  time  when  there 
wasn't  a  limpet  here.     Lord  knows  where  they  came  from 

—  America  in  my  opinion.  It  was  like  the  enemy  sowing 
tares  by  night." 

Captain  Rebow   continued  his  search  for   spat,  while 


ON  THE  PEEWIT  71 

the  men  went  roughly  through  their  heaps,  broke  off  and 
separated  the  clusters  of  oysters,  set  aside  the  limpet 
and  soon  threw  back  the  debris  to  the  sea.  Then  the 
trawls  went  down  again,  and  in  Teddy's  next  haul  there 
came  a  twelve-fingered  starfish,  a  splash  of  rare  colour 
amid  the  browns  and  greys  and  greens.  It  was  as  bril- 
liant as  a  cock's  wattle. 

"  We  call  them  '  roses,'  "  said  Teddy,  "  and  they  do  no 
harm.  And  that's  a  '  Queen,'  "  he  added,  handing  Ave- 
line  a  dainty  little  s<"ollop  shell.  "  They  are  good  to  eat, 
but  rare.     You  mightn't  catch  a  dozen  in  a  day." 

They  admired  much  that  was  beautiful,  and  shuddered 
at  certain  manifestations  of  marine  life  that,  on  their 
values,  appeared  hideous,  but  were  only  strange. 

With  hand-boards,  or  "  sheirds,"  Teddy  presently  flung 
back  to  sea  the  immature  oysters  and  debris  from  his 
trawl.  But  the  "five-fingered  jacks,"  wicked  tingles  and 
sea  hedgehogs  he  crushed  and  destroyed,  before  return- 
ing their  corpses  to  the  water. 

"  You  kill  the  beautiful  things  and  let  the  fat,  ugly 
oysters  go  on  living,"  said  Aveline. 

Teddy  laughed. 

"  The  oysters  are  our  friends,"  he  explained,  "  and  it's 
our  business  to  kill  their  enemies  when  we  catch  'em." 

Then  Aveline  grew  weary  of  the  fishing  and  turned  to 
the  sky  again,  while  Margery  spoke  to  another  man. 

He  was  dark,  with  a  close,  black  beard,  a  brown  skin, 
and  black,  curly  hair.  His  eyes  were  small  and  bright, 
and  he  wore  little  gold  rings  in  his  ears,  and  round  his 
throat  a  handkerchief,  that  had  once  been  red,  but  was 
now  weathered  to  pale  pink. 

"  How  are  you,  Mr.  Darcy  ?  "  asked  Margery,  and  he 
nodded  and  wished  her  good-morning. 

"  I'm  going  on  all  right,"  he  said,  "  as  I  always  do,  for 
that  matter ;  but  I'm  under  the  weather  for  the  minute 
owing  to  family  reasons.  In  fact,  my  sister  Emma  and 
Billy  Ambrose  are  along  with  me  for  the  present." 


72  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

None  at  Colchester  had  missed  the  fame  of  Emma  and 
William. 

"  I  expect  they're  rather  trying,"  said  Margery. 

"  Emma's  all  right  —  so  far  as  such  a  godless  woman 
can  be.  It  might  be  the  salvation  of  her  if  she  left  him; 
but  she  would  no  more  leave  him  than  the  light  leaves  the 
moon.  He  brings  us  all  under  his  command,  William  do. 
'Tis  no  good  raging  at  the  man." 

"  This  is  Mr.  Thomas  Darcy,"  said  Margery  to  Ave- 
line,  who  had  come  back  to  earth  from  sky  again.  "  He's 
the  brother  of  poor  Emma  —  you  know." 

They  talked  at  intervals  while  the  dredges  were  down. 
Aveline  was  full  of  ideas  for  Emma ;  but  they  were  vain. 

"  They're  two  in  one  and  one  in  two,  you  may  say," 
declared  Darcy,  "  far  more  than  most  properly  married 
people,  in  fact.  They  hate  law  and  order.  Emma  was 
always  a  roamer  before  she  met  him.  She  belonged  to  the 
gipsies  by  birth,  you  may  say,  and  though  my  family  had 
given  up  their  ways  and  lived  in  houses  for  generations, 
Emma  was  a  '  come  back,'  and  run  away  from  school  at 
twelve." 

A  ketch  steered  alongside  presently  and,  in  another 
squall  of  rain,  twenty  heavy  bags  of  oysters  were  trans- 
ferred from  her  to  the  steamer.  Then  the  Peewit  turned 
north  and  made  for  Pyefleet  Creek. 

"  We're  off  to  the  fatting  grounds  now,"  explained 
Teddy  Mushet,  when  the  rain  had  passed  and  the  visitors 
emerged  from  the  shelter  of  the  engine-room. 

"  All  these  full-sized  ware  ^  we've  caught  are  going  to 
be  flung  overboard  again  into  the  creek,  and  they'll  stay 
and  grow  fat  for  two  months  or  more  before  the  season 
opens.     But " 

He  stopped  as  Mr.  Rebow  approached. 

"  This  is  Pj^efleet  Creek,  ladies,"  began  the  captain, 
"  and  yonder  lies  Peewit  Island,  where  you  see  a  building 

1  Ware,  full-grown  oysters. 


ON  THE  PEEWIT  73 

rise  up  on  the  flats.  That's  the  Company's  island  and 
the  Company's  packing  sheds ;  and  the  oyster  pares  are 
there,  where  the  oysters  are  stored  day  by  day  in  the  sea- 
son. Nothing  doing  now;  but  a  busy  place  when  we 
begin  to  market.  Now  we're  in  the  fatting  grounds,  and 
under  our  keel  there's  millions  of  fine  natives  lying  thick  as 
the  sand  on  the  shore." 

The  saltings  spread  to  right  and  left,  and  Aveline 
noticed  how  the  sunlight  polished  the  water  and  frosted 
the  mud.  But  mud  and  water  were  of  the  same  colour, 
though  of  different  surface  texture.  The  low  mud  banks, 
scooped  out  by  the  tides,  hung  over,  like  solid  waves  that 
would  not  break  and  tumble ;  and  for  foam  along  their 
crests  ran  seafaring  plants  —  dim  orache  and  sea  asters 
and  sea  lavender,  that  now  began  to  light  the  saltings, 
with  rush  and  broken  sedges  and  other  weeds  of  the  coun- 
try that  had  stolen  here  and  suffered  a  sea  change  in 
flower  and  leaf.  The  glasswort  grew  on  spaces  sub- 
merged at  high  tide.  Stiff  and  sprightly  its  tiny  forests 
sprang  from  the  mud.  Mr.  Rebow  called  it  "  samphire  " 
and  held  it  a  valuable  vegetable.  He  explained  its  virtues 
both  boiled  and  pickled. 

"  I  picked  a  good  bunch  for  you  yesterday,"  said  Teddy 
to  his  cousin.     "  It's  home,  waiting  for  you." 

Margery  thanked  him. 

"  Uncle  Gregory's  very  fond  of  it,"  she  said. 

The  oysters  were  flung  into  the  creek  broadcast  with 
spades,  and  the  deck  of  the  Peewit  sluiced  and  cleansed. 
Then,  the  morning's  work  ended,  she  headed  for  home, 
while  Margery  chatted  with  Captain  Rebow  and  Aveline 
stood  aft  alone  and  rejoiced  in  the  low  horizons,  the  green 
meadows  and  elms  of  Mersea  Island,  and  the  receding  mud 
flats  swept  by  light  and  shadow  amid  the  steel-bright 
waters  of  distance. 

"  I'll  wager  you  young  women  are  hungry  now,"  said 
the  engineer  when  they  landed,  and  both  declared  that 
they  were. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    WAX-WING 

Quaker  influences  may  be  marked  in  many  a  home  of  East 
Essex.  It  is  a  county  famous  for  Bloody  Mary's  mar- 
t3^rs  and  savouring  of  the  Roundheads  to  this  day.  Ex- 
amine the  libraries  and  the  works  are  found  to  be  mostly 
religious.  It  was  so  in  the  dwelling  of  Samuel  Mushet, 
and  Nancy,  his  wife,  declared  herself  still  a  Quaker.  She 
spoke  to  Aveline  while  the  men  washed  and  made  ready 
for  dinner. 

Nancy  was  a  small,  dark,  dapper  woman,  well  pre- 
served for  her  fifty  years.  She  had  a  little  tip-tilted  nose, 
and  the  fascinating,  but  unclassical  mouth  that  often 
accompanies  that  feature. 

"  You're  looking  at  my  books  I  see,  Mrs.  Brown,"  she 
said.  "  Here's  Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress  and  John 
Milton  and  the  Book  of  Martyrs,  and,  for  light  reading 
I've  several  works  of  travel  in  the  Holy  Land.  We've 
got  Shakespeare,  too :  that's  my  husband's  book.  Bun- 
yan's my  man." 

They  spoke  of  names  at  dinner,  and  Mr.  Mushet  de- 
clared that  his  own  appellation  had  once  been  very  dif- 
ferent, 

"  I'm  told  by  my  brother,  who  got  it  out  of  Mr.  Am- 
brose, at  '  Colneside,'  that  Mushet  was  Mont-fitchet  once, 
and  that  the  race  was  very  high  and  mighty  in  Essex  long 
ago.  But  for  my  part  you  can't  be  too  simple  in  such 
matters.  Mont-fitchet  is  a  fantastic  sort  of  a  name,  in 
my  opinion  -r-  almost  something  godless  to  it,  you  might 
say.     Mushet    is    straightforward,    and    Mushet    means 

74 


THE  WAX-WING  75 

Essex  to  the  understanding  mind,  but  Mont-fitchet  means 
nothing." 

"  I  expect  it  means  a  good  deal,  if  you  looked  it  up," 
said  Aveline. 

"  I  have,"  said  Nancy,  "  and  it  means  to  them  so  called 
in  the  past,  money  and  lands  and  a  peck  of  troublesome 
adventures.  The  high  people  can't  live  quietly  and  jog 
along  like  us.     They  must  be  doing  and  stirring." 

"  They  taste  life,"  said  Aveline. 

But  Mr.  Mushet  grunted. 

"  They  taste  a  lot  of  things,"  he  said,  "such  a  lot,  in 
fact,  that  a  time  comes  when  they've  got  no  more  use  for 
food  as  food,  or  life  as  life.  They  want  all  life  to  be  an 
adventure,  and  don't  know  what's  going  to  happen  to  'em 
in  a  month's  time  more  than  we  know  what  the  weather's 
going  to  be." 

They  ate  very  heartily.  Aveline  dishonestly  admired 
the  decoration  of  the  room.  It  consisted  of  stuffed  birds 
in  glass  cases. 

"  They're  held  a  very  good  collection,  and  all  fell  to  my 
father's  gun,"  explained  Mrs.  Mushet.  "  He  was  a  great 
sportsman  and  a  man  who  understood  the  hidden  ways  of 
birds.  That's  a  wax-wing  you're  looking  at  now.  An 
amazingly  rare  creature.  My  father  always  hoped  he'd 
be  spared  to  shoot  one.  And  he  was.  It  came  to  his  gun 
in  his  seventieth  year." 

She  turned,  where  Teddy  Mushet  sat  very  silent  beside 
her,  eating  his  dinner  with  his  mouth  and  eating  Margery 
with  his  eyes. 

"  Tell  the  story  of  grandfather  and  the  wax-wing,  Ted. 
'Tis  a  very  good  tale.  And  Margery  will  help  me  change 
the  plates." 

"  My  grandfather  never  let  his  work  come  between  him 
and  a  bit  of  shooting  by  all  accounts,"  began  Teddy; 
"  and  he  loved  the  things  he  shot,  and  if  they  was  worth 
it,  he'd  stuff  them  to  the  life,  as  you  can  see.  And  one 
day  there  came  a  wax-wing  to  the  woods  where  grand- 


76  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

father  worked,  out  away  by  the  church.  And  an  under- 
standing man  mentioned  it  in  the  bar  of  the  '  King's  Head.' 
A  gamekeeper  he  was,  and  a  friend  of  my  grandfather's ; 
and  grandfather  pricked  his  ears.  *  Good  alive ! '  said 
grandfather,  *  you  don't  mean  it,  George .? '  And  George, 
who  knew  every  bird  that  flies,  swore  he'd  seen  the  creature 
twice.  And  in  the  bar  also  was  grandfather's  great  and 
bitter  rival  —  an  old,  lame  tally-man,  called  Noah  Pullen. 

"  '  That's  a  master-bit  of  news,  sure  enough  —  if  it's 
true,'  said  old  Noah.  Then  they  left  it  at  that,  and  the 
fun  began,  because  both  these  old  boys  put  everything  else 
from  them  from  that  moment  and  only  lived  to  slay  the 
wax-wing.  Early  and  late  they  went  about  to  shoot  it. 
And  then  came  a  morning  —  the  greatest  in  his  life,  as  he 
always  said  —  when  my  grandfather  dropped  the  wax- 
wing;  and  never,  since  the  day  he  shot  a  hoopoe,  twenty 
years  earlier  in  his  life,  did  he  rejoice  like  he  did  then. 
And  going  out  of  the  woods  to  his  breakfast,  who  should 
hobble  along  but  old  Noah  with  his  fowling-piece.''  He 
was  suspicious  like ;  but  grandfather  set  him  at  his  ease. 
*  Did  you  hear  gun-fire.'*  '  asked  Noah.  '  Surely  I  did,' 
answered  grandfather.  '  'Twas  George  over  to  Squire 
Bateman's.'  And  then  he  asks  t'other  old  chap  a  ques- 
tion. '  Haven't  seen  nothing  of  this  wax-wing  they  tell 
about,  have  you,  Pullen?'  'No  —  and  shan't,'  says 
Noah ;  '  they  tell  all  the  lies  they  can  think  of  in  Brittle- 
sea.  There  never  was  a  wax-wing  in  the  Tendring  Hun- 
dred and  there  never  will  be!'  A  fortnight  later  grand- 
father asked  old  Noah  to  come  in  the  house  and  have  a 
drink  and  a  game  of  '  shove-halfpenny,'  and  Noah  Pullen 
went ;  and  the  first  thing  he  see  staring  at  him  was  the 
wax-wing,  stuifed  and  smart  as  life  in  that  very  case  you're 
looking  at  now.  They  often  chuckled  at  it  afterwards, 
but  Noah  didn't  chuckle  at  the  time.  In  fact,  he  was  sore 
for  a  good  bit,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  say  the  bird 
wasn't  a  wax-wing,  though  too  well  he  knew  it  was." 

They  laughed  over  their  pudding  and,  finding  the  guest 


THE  WAX-WING  77 

very  sympathetic,  Nancy  Mushet  grew  friendly  and  more 
personal.  The  talk  was  of  punctuality,  and  Mrs.  Mushet 
declared  her  husband  the  least  punctual  person  in  the 
world. 

"  Though  not  as  bad  as  his  father  before  him,  I  grant," 
she  said. 

"  My  nature  is  to  be  behind  time,"  confessed  Samuel, 
"  but  if  you  have  to  do  with  machinery  and  steam,  as  I 
have,  then  the  fault  is  largely  cured.  Steam  waits  for  no 
man,  nor  yet  does  tide." 

"  Where  you're  servant,  you're  punctual  enough,  I 
grant,"  admitted  Nancy ;  "  but  not  where  you're  master. 
Nothing  to  your  old  father,  however." 

"  He  missed  pretty  well  all  he  could  in  his  life,"  ad- 
mitted Mr.  Mushet.  *'  He  missed  a  legacy,  and  he  missed 
the  woman  he  wanted  to  marry  most,  and  he  missed  his 
market  three  days  a  week,  and  he  missed  his  meals,  and 
he  missed  everything  but  bad  luck  —  born  under  a  bad 
star  you  might  say.  Never  went  out  of  Brittlesea  in  his 
life,  so  far  as  I  remember.  He  was  going  to  Colchester 
once ;  but  he  missed  the  train  and  couldn't  work  up  energy 
enough  to  try  again.  He  didn't  miss  Heaven,  however, 
for  a  better  man  never  walked,  though  so  belated." 

They  spoke  of  Gregory  and  his  house. 

"  There's  Flemish  blood  in  us,"  explained  Samuel. 
"  You'll  find  a  lot  of  it  in  these  parts,  and  it  came  over 
when  we  traded  a  good  deal  in  a  small  way  with  the  Low 
Countries  and  Holland.  And  it's  took  the  form  of  pride 
and  love  of  property  in  my  brother.  I  tell  him  he's  a 
Dutchman.  He  works  for  plants  and  I  work  for  oysters, 
and  I  say  my  work  is  above  his,  because  an  oyster  is  higher 
than  a  plant,  and  he  says  it  ain't.  In  fact,  he'd  put  a 
plant  higher  than  an  oyster,  and  that's  outrageous." 

"  For  beauty,  perhaps,"  said  Aveline. 

"  What's  more  beautiful  than  an  oyster,  inside  and  out? 
A  fine  oyster,  with  its  fringe  of  new-built  shell,  can't  be 
beat  for  beauty  to  the  trained  eye,  and  when  you  open 


78  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

'em,  what  flower  has  got  petals  so  beautiful  as  mother-of- 
pearl?  " 

Mrs.  Mushet  looked  uneasy. 

"  You'll  vex  ]Mrs.  Brown,  I  shouldn't  wonder,"  she  said. 

"  Certainly  not,"  he  answered.  "  I'm  only  telling  her 
that  an  oyster  is  a  higher  creation  than  a  cucumber,  and 
nobody  that  ever  I  met  but  Gregory  denies  it.  But  he's 
narrowed  his  outlook  by  remaining  a  bachelor.  He's  cut 
himself  off  from  any  voice  in  the  next  generation,  which 
ought  to  have  been  his  rightful  business." 

Mr.  Mushet  looked  at  the  stalwart  and  fair  Teddy  as  he 
spoke,  and  so  did  Mrs.  Mushet.  Fired  by  the  work  of  the 
pontoons,  the  boy  was  going  to  join  the  Engineers,  and 
his  mother,  with  her  whole  heart  and  soul,  resented  as  an 
outrage  the  necessity  that  called  him.  Her  Quaker  blood 
rose  passionately  against  the  thought  that  any  child  of 
hers  should  even  learn  how  to  fight. 

Silence  fell,  and  Margery  knew  and  Aveline  guessed  at 
the  thoughts  in  the  parents'  minds.  His  niece  spoke  to 
Samuel. 

"  Well,  you'll  be  coming  to  see  us  soon,  I  do  hope. 
Uncle  Gregory  told  me  a  lot  of  times  to  make  you  name 
the  day.  And  poor  old  Mr.  Pettikin  in  the  gardens  — 
he's  always  asking  after  you." 

"  I'll  come  —  next  month  as  likely  as  not  —  and  your 
aunt  also,  and  Ted,  if  he's  here." 

"  I  shan't  be,"  said  Teddy ;  "  and  if  you're  going  to 
catch  the  train,  you  ought  to  be  on  the  way,  Madge." 

They  started  five  minutes  later,  and  young  Mushet, 
carrying  a  great  bunch  of  green  "  samphire,"  walked  with 
them  to  the  station. 

The  last  thing  that  Aveline  noted  was  the  boy's  round, 
wistful  face  fixed  humbly  on  her  friend. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE    DINNER-PARTY 

Mr.  Parkyn  Ambrose  was  travelling  homeward  in  his 
motor-car,  and  beside  him  sat  Geoffrey  Seabrook.  The 
car  also  contained  a  large  bunch  of  flowers,  wrapped  in 
tissue  paper,  and  a  suit-case. 

The  day  of  the  dinner-party  at  Mersea  Island  had  come, 
and  Mr.  Ambrose  was  driving  the  draughtsman  home. 
Seabrook  appeared  much  impressed  with  this  kindness  and 
now  reiterated  his  thanks. 

"  It's  uncommonly  good  of  you  to  give  me  a  lift,"  he 
said. 

In  his  heavy,  condescending  voice  the  master  of  "  Colne- 
side  "  replied : 

"  Not  at  all,  my  dear  fellow.  The  obligation  is  ours. 
Other  guests  come  to  talk ;  you  give  us  the  pleasure  of 
song,  which  is  often  far  better." 

"  Who  dine  with  you,  if  I  may  ask  ?  " 

"  Just  a  little,  quiet  party  —  hardi}'  a  dinner.  I  am 
against  anything  like  an  entertainment  while  the  nation  is 
at  war.  My  old  friend,  Mr.  Odington,  the  rose-grower, 
and  his  wife,  a  Mrs.  Chaffe  and  her  daughter,  Dr.  Car- 
bonell  and  yourself  —  these  are  our  guests.  You  stay 
the  night  at  the  Manor  House  and  return  with  me  to-mor- 
row." 

"  It's  more  than  kind  and  I  hope  no  inconvenience." 

"  Far  from  it,  I  assure  you.  You  had  better  draw  up 
the  glass  on  your  side.     The  rain  is  coming  in." 

The  car  splashed  and  snorted  through  the  summer  rain 
to  Mersea  Island,  where  it  lay  embowered  in  elms  and  rich 
farmlands  between  the  estuaries  of  Blackwater  and  Colne. 

79 


80  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

By  a  causeway  it  is  approached  from  the  mainland,  and 
this  neck,  which  crosses  Pyefleet  Creek,  is  called  the  Strood 
—  a  Roman  road  of  old  time.  Once  upon  the  island  the 
way  forked,  and  the  car  of  Mr.  Ambrose  took  the  right 
hand  branch  for  West  Mersea,  a  fishing  hamlet,  nigh  which 
he  dwelt.  It  is  a  place  of  ancient  fame,  for  Briton,  Saxon 
and  Roman  have  all  left  their  mark  upon  it.  Mr.  Am- 
brose preserved  in  his  garden  fragments  of  venerable  for- 
tifications and  some  details  of  Roman  tessellated  pave- 
ment ;  while  to  the  church  he  also  took  friends  interested 
in  such  matters.  It  was  a  Norman  building  of  flint  and 
stone,  brightened  with  Roman  brick.  South  of  it  stood 
the  Manor  House,  where  Mr.  Ambrose  dwelt,  and  westerly 
stretched  the  village  —  a  place  very  picturesque,  full  of 
pleasant,  red-roofed  cottages  lifted  above  the  Blackwater 
and  the  mud  flats. 

Mrs.  Ambrose  welcomed  her  husband  and  the  visitor. 

"  Why !  What  an  inspiration !  "  she  said  at  sight  of 
the  flowers.     "  I  am  going  to  wear  white  to-night." 

Seabrook  had  brought  a  large  bunch  of  very  dark, 
velvety,  crimson  carnations. 

They  drank  tea,  and,  the  weather  clearing,  all  three  of 
them  walked  out  afterwards.  The  gardens  sloped  to  the 
sea  and  below  them  a  sandy  beach  extended.  Helena  ran 
and  played  with  two  white  Pomeranian  dogs,  while  Mr. 
Ambrose  perambulated  with  the  guest. 

"  My  wife  is  the  very  impersonification  of  youth,"  de- 
clared Parkyn ;  "  but  you  must  not  think  she  lives  for 
pleasure." 

"  They  say  at  the  hospital  that  she  helps  the  men  to  get 
well  and  has  a  marvellous  instinct  to  brighten  up  the 
wounded  soldiers." 

Mr.  Seabrook  invented  this  pleasant  picture,  for  nobody 
had  said  it,  or  thought  it.     But  the  husband  was  gratified. 

"  Woman's  work  —  ministering  angels  '  when  pain  and 
anguish  wring  the  brow.'  They  were  not  exactly  minister- 
ing angels  who  broke  into  Kew  Gardens  last  year,  how- 


THE  DINNER-PARTY  81 

ever,  and  destroyed  many  valuable  specimens  of  the  orchid 
family.  But  I  think  the  war  has  sobered  them  and  awak- 
ened their  purer  and  loftier  feelings." 

Mr.  Seabrook  was  pleased  to  hear  it. 

"  I  always  respect  and  venerate  woman,"  he  said. 

"  Go  on  doing  so,  my  good  fellow,"  advised  Mr.  Am- 
brose. "  If  they  lose  our  respect  and  veneration,  what 
else  have  they?  Nothing  but  to  declare  a  sex  war.  And 
that  is  contrary  to  nature,  therefore  it  cannot  happen." 

Upon  this  great  verity  returned  Mrs.  Ambrose,  breath- 
less, as  a  gong  sounded  from  the  house. 

"  The  dressing  gong  —  we  must  return,"  said  Mr.  Am- 
brose. 

On  their  way  back,  Helena  asked  a  question  of  Sea- 
brook. 

"  Are  you  going  to  sing  at  our  Red  Cross  Concert?  " 

"  I  shall  be  proud  to  if  I  am  at  Colchester.  I  go  to  the 
North  shortly." 

"  Concerning  General  Sir  David  Appleyard's  garden,  I 
had  a  singular  letter  to-day,"  declared  Mr.  Ambrose. 
"  So  far  as  I  can  understand  him,  he  wants  a  military 
garden." 

His  wife  laughed, 

"  How  ridiculous  !  "  she  said. 

"  If  he  wants  forts  and  redoubts  and  salients  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  I  shan't  be  able  to  help  him,  I  fear." 

"  Your  tact  will  not  fail  you,"  prophesied  Parkyn. 
"  Humour  him.  If  a  man  wants  a  garden  suggestive  of 
military  operations,  no  doubt  such  a  garden  can  be 
created." 

"  It's  one's  privilege  and  pleasure  —  and  business  to 
catch  a  client's  spirit  and  reflect  it  back  to  him  if  pos- 
sible." 

"  I  wish  our  mutual  friend,  Mistley,  could  hear  you," 
answered  Mr.  Ambrose.  "  Mistley  is  a  genius,  but,  like 
all  geniuses,  too  eager  to  impose  his  ideals  and  too  im- 
patient of  other  people's  ideas." 


82  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

They  went  in  then,  and  at  five  minutes  to  the  dinner 
hour,  Seabrook  entered  the  drawing-room  in  very  perfect 
evening  raiment.  He  brought  down  his  music  with  him. 
The  room  was  empty,  and  he  turned  to  a  looking-glass 
and  gave  his  tie  and  his  hair  a  touch  with  a  light,  quick 
hand,  as  a  woman  does. 

Then  Parkyn  Ambrose  and  his  wife  appeared,  and  a 
few  moments  later  the  guests  arrived.  Mrs.  ChafFe  and 
her  daughter  lived  near,  while  Dr.  Carbonell  had  accepted 
the  offer  of  the  Odingtons  and  come  with  them  in  their 
motor-car  from  Colchester. 

"  There  is  one  great  charm  about  the  automobile :  it 
extends  one's  radius  and  enables  us  to  enlarge  the  circle 
of  our  friends,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose,  after  he  had  asked  a 
blessing.  He  took  in  Mrs.  Odington,  while  to  the  lot  of 
Mr.  Odington  fell  Helena.  Dr.  Carbonell  sat  at  the  left 
hand  of  Mrs.  ChafFe  and  Seabrook  on  the  left  of  Miss 
Chaffe.  She  was  a  good-natured  creature,  who  laughed 
at  everything,  and  her  moon  face  beamed  out  from  a  cloud 
of  towy  hair,  ill  done.  Mr.  Odington  —  a  little  man  with 
a  quick  way  of  turning  his  head  to  the  right  and  left,  like 
a  stoat,  had  never  room  in  his  mind  for  more  than  one  idea 
at  a  time.  He  admitted  this,  and  when  Mrs.  Ambrose  dis- 
covered that  the  idea  for  that  evening  was  to  be  the  horti- 
cultural value  of  bacteria  in  peat,  she  wavered  more  and 
more  to  her  right-hand  neighbour,  the  doctor.  Then  Mr. 
Odington  made  a  bacterial  attack  on  Miss  Chaffe,  who  sat 
on  his  left,  and  such  was  her  softness  of  heart  that,  once 
entangled  in  the  subject,  she  remained  a  listener,  fright- 
ened to  escape  back  to  Geoffrey  Seabrook.  He,  for  his 
part,  thus  released,  discussed  music  with  Mrs.  Odington, 
who  was  understood  to  know  something  about  it.  But  he 
found  that  the  subject  rendered  Mrs.  Odington  uneasy. 

"  Before  I  married,"  said  Mrs.  Odington,  "  I  lived  for 
music,  and  sang  in  the  choir  at  the  Handel  Festival  on  two 
occasions." 

"  Do  you  still  sing?  "  asked  Geoffrey. 


THE  DINNER-PARTY  83 

*'  Only  to  my  husband." 

*'  How  greedy  of  him." 

"  No,  it  is  kind  of  him.  INIy  voice  is  not  what  it  was 
and  could  give  other  people  no  pleasure;  but  a  woman's 
voice  is  like  her  beauty  in  the  ear  of  one  who  loves  her 
from  the  past." 

"  I'm  sure  you  are  far  too  young  to  be  so  sentimental," 
said  Mr.  Seabrook,  and  the  lady,  whose  age  was  fifty- 
seven,  approved  of  him. 

At  a  moment  when  the  young  man  was  making  a  tactful, 
but  futile,  effort  to  rescue  Miss  Chaffe  from  the  bacteria, 
Mrs.  Odington,  under  her  breath,  praised  him  to  Mr. 
Ambrose. 

"  You  are  right ;  he  is  a  high-minded,  worthy  fellow  — 
quite  a  young  man  worth  cultivating,"  said  Parkyn. 

The  host  was  old-fashioned  and  practised  old  fashions. 
He  caught  Mr.  Odington's  eye  and  took  wine  with  him. 
He  breathed  a  spirit  of  amiable  platitude. 

The  meal  was  neither  elaborate  nor  lengthy. 

As  the  ladies  left  the  dining-room,  Mrs.  Ambrose  said, 
"  Don't  be  long." 

But  Dr.  Carbonell  loved  a  good  cigar,  and  though 
Parkyn  Ambrose  was  no  smoker,  he  never  criticised  the 
habit  in  others.  The  men  assembled  round  Ambrose,  and 
the  rose-grower  asked  his  host  his  candid  opinion  concern- 
ing bacterialised  peat  in  the  garden. 

"  My  own  feeling  is  to  fight  novelty,"  said  Mr.  Oding- 
ton. "  There  is  far  too  much  novelt}^  in  the  world  now- 
adays, and  people  often  accept  a  new  thing  just  because  it 
is  new." 

"  Not  seldom  at  the  expense  of  something  that  is  better, 
though  older,"  declared  Mr.  Ambrose.  "  Yes,  Odington, 
I  agree  with  you :  this  rush  for  novelty  is  not  a  good  sign 
of  the  times." 

"  In  the  past,  truth  had  to  fight  for  acceptance  and  a 
new  thing  was  always  suspect,"  said  Dr.  Carbonell.  "  Our 
fore-fathers   were   more   conservative    than   we    are,    and 


84  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

looked  into  new  truths  very  sharply  —  to  see  that  they 
didn't  clash  with  old  truths.  A  new  truth  had  to  fight 
tooth  and  nail  to  get  established." 

"  Yet  what  commonplaces  some  of  the  great  funda- 
mental facts  are  to-day,"  observed  Seabrook,  and  the  old 
doctor  quoted  poetry. 

" '  No  truth  is  ere  so  simple  but  of  old 

It  scarce  could  win  men's  credence,  nor  is  aught 
So  great,  so  wondrous  in  its  majesty 
But  by  degrees  we  cease  from  wondering.' 

That's  Lucretius  —  the  first  and  greatest  poet  of  reason 
—  not  read  enough  nowadays.  De  Quincey  said  he  was 
mad ;  but  De  Quincey  thought  everybody  mad  —  Shelley, 
Goethe  and  all  the  rest  —  who  had  brains  enough  to  de- 
mand freedom  of  thought.  That  was  his  charity,  poor 
soul,  to  declare  free  thought  only  a  poisonous  flower  stuck 
in  a  madman's  hair." 

Mr.  Ambrose  looked  uneasy  at  this  challenge;  but  for 
the  sake  of  his  other  guests  he  felt  called  upon  to  take  it 

up. 

"  We  Christians  cannot  feel  satisfied  of  the  sanity  of 
any  man  who  rejects  what  seems  to  us  so  vital,"  he  said. 
"  The  Almighty  makes  our  brains  according  to  His  own 
will;  but  He  never  shuts  the  possibility  of  faith  out  of 
them.  To  some  it  is  easy,  to  some  difficult,  to  all  possible. 
Faith,  I  mean.  The  bent  of  every  brain  is  God's  design. 
God  is  a  free  agent,  and  nothing  curbs  His  power  to  make 
men  as  He  likes  and  worlds  as  He  likes  —  for  His  pur- 
poses, of  course,  not  ours." 

"  You  mustn't  say  that,"  answered  the  veteran.  "  A 
clergyman  would  condemn  you.  There  was  a  pious  soul 
called  Vanini,  who  declared  that  God  desires  to  have  the 
world  as  it  is,  and  that  if  He  had  wished  it  better.  He 
would  have  made  it  better.  What  would  you  have  done 
to  such  a  man?  " 

Mr.  Ambrose  fell  into  the  trap. 


THE  DINNER-PARTY  85 

"  I  should  have  said  it  was  a  very  sensible  position  to 
take.  The  world  is  getting  better,  and  man,  by  the  grace 
of  God,  is  working  out  his  own  salvation.  No  doubt 
this  Vanini  believed  in  a  good  God  and  trusted  the  world 
to  Him." 

"  You're  no  Christian  if  you  think  that.  What  the 
Church  of  Christ  did  was  to  tear  Vanini's  tongue  out  and 
burn  him  alive  for  daring  to  suggest  that  the  Almighty 
was  a  free  agent.  You  must  be  careful,  Ambrose,  or  your 
large-minded  views  will  land  you  in  unorthodoxy." 

Seabrook  ventured  a  tilt  at  the  doctor. 

"  No  doubt  the  principle  of  evolution  comes  into  re- 
ligion," he  said,  "  and  we  Christians  accept  the  Faith  in  a 
larger  spirit  than  early  Christians  used  to  do.  We're 
more  tolerant,  and  allow  more  credit  to  people  who  think 
differently." 

*'  You're  more  tolerant  because  you've  got  to  be,"  an- 
swered Carbonell.  "  Science  and  Reason  have  won  such 
a  measure  of  recognition  under  improved  education  that 
many  of  j^our  positions  have  to  be  yielded :  your  front-line 
trenches  are  gone.  It  is  a  sign  of  the  times  that  3'ou 
claim  for  your  faith  the  principle  of  evolution  —  the  very 
principle  that  your  faith  most  vehemently  denied,  when 
first  it  challenged  the  world." 

"  I  deprecate  these  struggles  between  revealed  religion 
and  Science,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose. 

"  They  must  continue,  however,"  answered  the  other, 
"  because  if  the  two  sides  do  not  find  some  golden  mean, 
intellectual  peace  cannot  return  to  earth  and  we  continue 
a  vicious  system  of  party  in  ethics,  as  in  politics.  We 
must  have  our  metaphysicians,  our  Bradleys  and  our  Bal- 
fours,  on  the  one  side,  and  our  physicists,  our  Haeckels 
and  Lankesters,  on  the  other.  There  can  be  no  lasting 
peace  yet." 

"  Would  you  banish  the  spiritual  out  of  the  world,  Doc- 
tor.'' "  asked  Seabrook. 

"  Emphatically,    no.     Though    faith    in    supernatural 


86  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

things  was  burned  away  for  me  in  the  athanor  of  h!fe  be- 
fore you  were  born,  young  man,  yet  I  never  was  without 
faith  and  never  shall  be.  I  go  further  than  many  mate- 
rialists, and  say  that  there  is  a  precious  spiritual  stand- 
point in  monism ;  but  it  is  far  removed  from  everything 
that  we  understand  by  '  revelation.'  Rationalism  will 
grant  human  nature  infinite  possibilities  of  expansion  and 
improvement ;  but  she  limits  the  power  of  individual  expan- 
sion to  the  life  of  the  unit;  she  believes  that  death  must 
circumscribe  it ;  she  declines  to  think  force  away  from 
matter,  or  thought  away  from  brain;  just  as  you,  no 
doubt,  would  decline  to  think  the  edge  of  a  knife  away 
from  the  knife,  or  imagine  wetness  without  moisture,  or  a 
shadow  without  substance  to  cast  it.  That's  where  phys- 
ics, the  strong,  has  to  be  patient  with  metaphysics,  the 
weak." 

"  Tell  me  what  you  would  do  in  this  case,  before  we  join 
the  ladies,"  said  Parkyn. 

"  I  am  about  to  dismiss  a  man  from  my  employment  — 
a  very  good  man  regarded  as  a  son  of  the  soil ;  but  a  very 
bad  man  regarded  as  a  member  of  the  community.  A 
leopard  cannot  change  his  spots,  nor  a  son  of  the  soil  his 
stains.  This  man  has  ruined  a  girl  and  he  won't  marry 
her.  Can  I  do  less  than  dismiss  him,  as  a  good  Christian, 
or  a  good  citizen?  " 

"As  to  the  individual,  you're  the  best  judge.  If  he's 
the  right  age,  let  him  marry  her  and  go  to  the  war.  He's 
only  a  victim  of  our  social  failure,  and  so  is  the  woman. 
We  fight  Nature  foolishly,  and  never  see  that  man  must 
run  in  double  harness  with  Nature,  if  he  wants  to  go  to  his 
own  possible  limit.  But  he  won't  break  himself  into  that 
double  harness.  We're  always  trying  to  cheat  the  tide, 
we  men.  Instead  of  harnessing  the  hot  blood  in  the  veins 
of  youth  and  the  will  to  live  and  enjo}'  —  the  mightiest 
dynamic  force  on  the  earth  —  we  frustrate  it  and  declare 
it  a  danger  and  a  sin.  Yes,  it  is  the  ultimate,  disgraceful 
sin  to  obey  Nature's  loudest,  most  incessant  cry  to  youth. 


THE  DINNER-PARTY  87 

Instead  of  striving  to  understand  that  cry,  we  pit  our 
voice  against  it  and  try  to  shut  it  down.  We're  develop- 
ing society  on  lines  that  make  it  more  and  more  impossible 
for  men  to  wed  young.  On  the  one  side  is  the  Church  and 
State  shouting  to  us  to  increase  and  multiply,  and  breed 
souls  for  God  and  bodies  for  cannon  fodder ;  on  the  other 
side  a  natural  dread  of  children,  begot  of  the  increasing 
difficulties  of  life  and  the  increasing  disabilities  under 
which  those  labour  with  a  quiver  full.  But  more  and  more 
decent  people  keep  down  their  families  for  motives  purely 
altruistic,  and  consider  the  unborn  with  such  real  affection 
that  they  do  not  bear  them." 

They  talked  on  and  Mr.  Ambrose  watched  the  doctor's 
cigar ;  when  it  was  relinquished,  he  rose. 

"  Now  let  us  join  the  ladies,"  he  said.  "  Music  will 
soothe  our  minds  after  these  grave  problems." 

In  the  drawing-room,  Mrs.  Ambrose  was  already  at 
the  piano,  at  the  wish  of  Mrs.  Odington,  who  talked  little 
and  was  glad  to  escape  the  necessity  to  talk  at  all. 
Helena  played  with  a  great  deal  of  manner,  but  no  distinc- 
tion. She  sang  also,  and  had  been  carefully  taught  to  do 
all  possible  with  a  restricted  voice.  The  older  men  stood 
and  listened,  but  Seabrook  went  forward  to  turn  the  pages. 
They  praised  the  song,  which  was  of  a  light  and  joyous 
character. 

"  It's  something  to  be  cheered  up  nowadays,"  said  Mrs. 
ChafFe.  "  My  girl  will  sing  mournful,  heart-breaking 
stuff,  and  I  say,  what's  the  good?  " 

"  Not  much  certainly,  as  she  sings,"  whispered  Geoffrey 
Seabrook  to  Helena,  and  she  showed  him  by  a  flash,  for  his 
eye  only,  that  she  appreciated  the  jest. 

"  I  can  still  be  happy,"  said  Mrs.  Ambrose,  replying  to 
Mrs.  Chaffe.  "  A  few  of  us  elderly  people  still  cherish 
the  art  of  being  happy ;  though  the  young  have  quite  lost 
it,  I  fear." 

It  was  a  little  trick  of  hers  to  be  quite  middle-aged  one 
day  and  an  infant  the  next ;  indeed,  she  could  assume  both 


88  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

roles  in  the  same  hour.  Children,  however,  saw  through 
the  affectation  and  it  bored  them ;  neither  were  her  elders 
much  impressed  when  she  pretended  weight  of  years. 

"  Some  people  never  get  middle-aged  even,"  declared 
Mr.  Odington. 

"  We're  as  old  as  our  temperaments,"  said  Dr.  Car- 
bonell. 

Nelly  Chaffe  now  sang,  and  while  Seabrook  turned  the 
music,  Mrs.  Odington  praised  him  to  Mr.  Ambrose. 

"  What  a  nice  young  man  he  is,"  she  said.  "  A  thor- 
ough gentleman,  and  with  very  refined  feelings." 

"  And  a  good  Christian  also,  which  is  something  to  a 
man's  credit  nowadays,"  answered  Parkyn.  "  We  had  a 
deep  discussion  when  you  ladies  left  us,  and  against  the 
opinions  of  Dr.  Carbonell,  who  supports  views  of  a  very 
doubtful  character,  Seabrook  opposed  his  simple  faith." 

"  You've  made  him,  no  doubt." 

"  I  have  been  very  glad  to  advance  him,  as  I  am  very 
glad  to  advance  every  hard-working  and  right-thinking 
young  man.     Among  his  other  virtues  is  gratitude." 

Nelly  Chaflfe  sang  in  a  thin,  little  voice  that  seemed 
absurd  contrasted  with  her  ample  person.  All  joy  of  life 
and  youth  departed  from  her  at  the  piano.  From  being 
a  jolly  and  giggling  maiden,  too  distractingly  addicted  to 
laughter,  she  grew  anxious  and  downcast.  Her  song,  in 
a  minor  key,  was  of  the  most  heart-broken  description, 
and  so  tiny  and  so  liquid  were  her  vocal  gifts  that  the 
general  effect,  heard  at  a  little  distance,  was  rather  that 
of  a  disordered  soda-water  syphon. 

Mr,  Ambrose,  however,  praised  the  effort.  He  had  an 
idea  to  marry  Seabrook  to  Nelly  Chaffe  some  day.  It 
struck  him  as  a  likel}'  engagement  for  his  protege. 

"  A  sorrowful  composition,"  he  said,  "  but  in  keeping 
with  the  times." 

Mrs.  Odington  was  praising  Helena's  white  gown  and 
admiring  technical  triumphs. 

"  To  learn  to  wear  clothes  one  must  go  to  Paris,"  said 


THE  DINNER-PARTY  89 

Mrs.  Ambrose.  "  In  England  fashion  is  a  duty :  at  Paris 
it  is  a  pleasure." 

She  quoted  thus  sometimes  from  books,  which  her  hus- 
band and  her  friends  did  not  know,  thus  winning  in  her 
circle  an  undeserved  reputation  for  wit.  Wit  she  had, 
however:  it  appeared  in  her  power  of  selection. 

"  The  result  is,"  continued  Helena,  as  her  own  opinion, 
"  that  in  Paris  new  clothes  are  alive ;  in  England  they  are 
merely  new  and  the  breath  of  life  is  not  in  them." 

"  You  would  make  a  sack  alive,  my  dear  lady,"  declared 
the  gallant  Mr.  Odington. 

Then  Seabrook  performed,  and  the  character  of  the 
entertainment  gained  qualit3\  He  controlled  a  light 
tenor  voice  with  art.  The  Cammaerts  lyric  was  much 
approved,  but  better  still  they  liked  "  The  Keys  of 
Heaven,"  to  the  original  English  setting.  This  he  gave 
by  request  of  Mr.  Ambrose,  who  declared  it  to  be  his 
favourite  musical  number.  Mrs.  Ambrose  pla3^ed  his  ac- 
companiments. At  ten  o'clock  the  party  broke  up,  and 
at  half-past  ten  Mr.  Ambrose  retired. 

"  Early  hours  have  always  been  my  golden  rule,"  he 
said ;  "  but  I  must  not  impose  them  upon  you." 

Geoffre}^,  however,  declared  that  early  hours  were  his 
rule  also,  though  once  in  the  seclusion  of  his  chamber,  his 
acts  belied  his  words.  Very  deliberately  he  went  to  bed 
and  blew  out  his  candle.  Then  he  produced  an  electric 
reading-light  and  a  book  from  his  suit-case,  placed  the 
light  in  position  and  read.  A  clock  chimed  midnight  and 
still  he  read  on.  The  book  was  Flaubert's  first  Tempta- 
tion of  St.  Anthony.  At  five  minutes  to  two  he  shut  the 
work,  extinguished  the  light  and  got  out  of  bed.  As  the 
clock  chimed  the  hour,  he  opened  his  door  stealthily  and 
went  into  the  passage.  He  crept  along  it  and  presently 
heard  ponderous  and  steady  snoring  proceeding  from  a 
distant  chamber. 

All  was  intensely  dark.  Then  he  heard  a  little  sound 
and  a  moment  later  a  pair  of  arms  were  round  his  neck. 


90  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

For  twenty  seconds  a  man  and  a  woman  were  locked  and 
trembling  in  calentures  of  joy.  They  rained  silent  kisses 
upon  one  another.  Then  they  fell  apart.  No  whisper 
passed  between  them ;  the  embrace  of  ghosts  had  not  been 
more  soundless.  Seabrook  went  back  to  his  room,  burn- 
ing with  delight.  He  returned  to  bed,  heaved  a  contented 
sigh  and  swiftly  slept.     The  woman  did  the  same. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN    THE    GARDENS 

Peter  Mistley  never  repeated  himself,  and  though  the 
studio  of  "  Colneside  "  was  hung  with  the  drawings  of  his 
happiest  achievements  and  designs  for  existing  summer- 
houses,  pergolas,  terraces,  and  bridges  spanning  streams, 
or  ornamental  waters,  to  these  he  seldom  referred  a  second 
time  for  inspiration.  Not  two  stairways  did  he  set  up 
alike,  or  two  pillars.  Thus  he  escaped  any  persistent  and 
inviolate  pattern,  and  none  could  say  of  his  gardens,  what 
can  be  said  of  the  creation  of  many  famous  gardeners  in 
the  past,  that  such  and  such  a  garth  was  one  of  his. 

Aveline  came  to  see  him  at  the  studio  soon  after  his 
return  from  Devon,  and  he  spoke  about  his  work.  At  first 
her  excitement  was  immense;  then  before  his  enthusiasm 
hers  fainted  a  little. 

"  I  love  problems,"  he  said,  "  as  where  river  levels  are 
prone  to  rise  and  threaten  a  system  of  ponds,  or  how  to 
preserve  things  worthy  of  preservation,  even  though  they 
threaten  the  inspiration  that  has  come  to  you ;  and  so  on." 

He  showed  her  designs  of  a  work  he  held  a  triumph, 
where  a  small  red-tiled  house  crowned  three  tiers  of  rock 
and  walled  garden  and  found  the  apex  of  the  pile  with  its 
own  roof-tree.  Round  about  were  green  meadows  and 
woodlands. 

"  It  looks  like  a  butterfly  on  a  flower :  you  expect  to  see 
it  fly  away,"  declared  Aveline. 

Under  the  window,  on  the  drawing-table,  he  was  work- 
ing at  a  great  plan  and  shading  in  the  flower-beds  of  a 
rose  garden  round  about  a  fountain. 

91 


9a  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  This  is  the  new  Devonshire  thing,"  he  said.  "  Let  me 
explain  it  to  you." 

He  did  so ;  and  then  she  looked  through  volumes  of 
sketches  and  photographs  of  Dutch  gardens,  Italian  gar- 
dens, Japanese  gardens  and  old  English  gardens  copied 
from  ancient  prints.  There  were  gates  and  alleys,  leaden 
and  marble  statues,  cisterns  and  ancient  seats,  sundials 
and  fountain  figures.  Book  after  book  he  opened:  the 
block  records,  the  drawing  registers  and  a  library  of 
colour  prints. 

To  him  these  were,  until  recently,  the  most  interesting 
things  in  the  world  —  the  data  and  shorthand  of  his  life's 
work;  but  she  grew  bored  after  an  hour  of  it  and  began 
to  feel  —  what  most  wives,  sooner  or  later,  feel :  the  frantic 
desire  to  get  away  from  their  husbands'  business,  even 
though  it  may  be  compact  of  beauty.  Not  art  itself  is 
proof  against  the  monotony  of  iteration.  He  saw  the 
cloud  flit  over  her  eyes  and  the  unconscious  hand  steal  up 
to  hide  a  yawn. 

"  What  a  self-centred  brute  I  am,"  he  said.  "  I'm 
wearying  you  to  death." 

"  It's  unkind  of  you  even  to  think  so,"  she  declared. 
"  I  love  your  work.  I  only  yawned  because  you're  very 
hot  and  stuffy  in  here." 

"  Come  out,  then." 

"  You've  added  beauty  to  every  county  in  England,  I 
believe.  I  should  dearly  like  to  make  a  pilgrimage  to  your 
gardens  and  worship  in  them." 

"Would  you.?  How  proud  I  should  be  to  show  you 
some." 

"  The  one  in  France  would  please  me,  if  it's  anything 
like  the  drawings." 

"  It  ought  to  be  better,  and  full  of  fine,  natural  acci- 
dents by  this  time." 

"  I  expect  Nature  often  touches  things  up  after  you're 
gone." 

He  laughed. 


IN  THE  GARDEN  93 

"  If  only  Nature  did,  I  shouldn't  mind ;  but  I  generally 
know  when  I  leave  people,  even  while  they're  smiling  and 
thanking  me  ever  so  much,  and  saying  it's  all  perfect,  that 
they're  going  to  stab  me  in  the  back  as  soon  as  I've  de- 
parted." 

"  I  don't  believe  people  ever  dream  of  any  such  thing. 
And  don't  think  I've  nearly  done  looking  at  your  pic- 
tures." 

"  You  ought  to  pay  me  in  my  own  coin  and  make  me 
come  and  look  at  some  of  yours." 

"  I'm  thinking  of  doing  so,"  she  said.  "  You  may  not 
escape  long." 

"  It  would  be  a  greater  pleasure  to  me  to  come  and  see 
some  of  your  work  than  anything  else  in  the  world,"  he 
answered  very  earnestly. 

Before  this  assertion  she  was  dumb  for  awhile;  but  she 
thanked  him  with  a  look  that  made  him  giddy.  They 
walked  out,  past  a  row  of  packing  sheds,  and  beside  rows 
of  frames  from  which  the  glass  hed  been  removed  for 
the  summer  months.  A  thousand  species  of  alpine 
plants  sparkled  prosperously  here  in  twenty  thousand 
pots. 

"  How  they  must  long  to  escape  and  get  back  to  their 
mountains,"  said  Aveline. 

"  They're  happy  enough." 

"  How  on  earth  do  you  know  that?  I  understand  them 
a  great  deal  better  than  you  do.  Because  I'm  built  irregu- 
larly: you're  built  four-square.  When  I  was  a  child,  I 
always  wanted  something  not  immediately  attainable ;  and 
when  I  grew  up,  I  always  wanted  something  not  attainable 
at  all." 

"  I  believe  everybody,  at  some  time  or  other,  reaches 
out  for  better  bread  than  is  made  of  wheat.  The  dullest 
of  us  have  one  flight  —  get  wings  once  —  and  rise  above 
the  earth  for  a  moment  or  two.  Most  of  us  come  down 
again  pretty  quickly  —  only  the  poets  and  artists  can 
stop  in  the  air." 


94  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  You  mean  everybody  has  one  adventure?  " 

"  I  mean  everybody  wants  one  adventure.  Many  don't 
see  the  chance  when  it  comes  and  only  recognise  it  after  it 
has  gone.  Many  —  most  —  find  the  adventure  in  mar- 
riage. In  fact,  that's  about  the  only  adventure  open  to 
the  poor." 

"  To  the  poor-spirited,  you  mean.  Poverty  needn't 
stop  adventure.  Look  at  Bill}^  Ambrose  and  Emma.  Of 
course,  marriage  might  be  the  most  exciting  adventure 
in  the  world," 

"  The  ideal  marriage  oughtn't  to  be  exciting,  or  dull 
either ;  but  just  satisfying  and  beautiful." 

"  Can  you  imagine  such  a  marriage?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  and  so  can  you.  We've  both  got 
enough  imagination  for  that." 

"  As  for  me,"  declared  Aveline.  "  I'd  sooner  marry  a 
devil  than  a  bore.  Because  you'd  be  living  all  the  time 
with  the  one ;  but  you  die  all  the  time  with  the  other.  It's 
better  to  be  happy  than  unhappy ;  but  it's  far,  far  better 
to  be  unhappy  than  dull." 

"  We  make  our  own  dulness,"  he  said ;  but  she  would 
not  have  that. 

"  No  we  don't  —  unless  we're  donkeys.  One's  only 
human;  one  can  only  fight  up  to  a  certain  point;  then 
something  gives  way  and  the  heart  breaks,  or " 

"  You  fly  or  perish." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  changed  colour  and  stared  in 
front  of  her.     There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Why  talk  of  devils  or  dullards  ?  "  he  asked.  "  There 
are  others." 

"  I  know  that  very  well.  I  hate  alpines  and  irises  any- 
way.    Show  me  something  else." 

He  would  have  given  much  to  speak  then  and  there ;  but 
he  was  a  man  of  methodical  mind  and  seldom  acted  on  the 
spur  of  the  moment.  He  had  ideas  about  the  future  and  a 
sense  of  what  was  seemly  and  distinguished.  Therefore 
he  did  not  throw  over  his  predetermined  plan.     He  tem- 


IN  THE  GARDEN  95 

porised,  however,  and  indicated  to  Aveline  that  a  plan 
existed. 

"  Some  day  I  shall "  he  said,  and  that  was  all. 

"  Some  day  you  will  be  dead ;  and  so  shall  I ;  and  what's 
that  absurd  looking  creature  doing  over  there?  " 

She  recovered  quickl}^  and  he  rejoiced,  because  he  rather 
believed  that  his  four  Avords  had  been  understood.  He 
debated  for  many  hours  upon  this  point  after  he  had  left 
her,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  was  mistaken,  and 
that  she  had  gleaned  nothing  from  his  broken  speech.  He 
went  farther,  indeed,  and  hated  himself  for  speaking  those 
words.  They  really  argued  insolence  on  his  part ;  for 
what  in  the  name  of  heaven  did  it  matter  to  her  what  he 
might,  or  might  not  do  some  day?  " 

At  the  time,  as  Aveline  pointed  to  a  labourer,  he  had 
replied. 

"  That's  Richard  Bare.  He's  only  ridiculous  till  yoxi 
understand  he's  got  a  screw  loose.  Then  he's  impressive. 
Still,  he's  funny,  too,  and  you  can  be  amused  at  him  and 
be  sorry  for  him  both.     Come  and  see  him." 

Richard  was  a  bow-legged  man,  with  buff-coloured 
gaiters.  He  wore  also  corduroy  breeches  and  a  blue  linen 
shirt.  His  coat  and  waistcoat  hung  on  the  limb  of  an 
apple  tree  close  at  hand.  Upon  his  head  was  a  boy's 
cricket  cap  of  red  and  orange  segments  —  a  cap  too  small 
for  him.  His  head  was  large,  with  moony  eyes,  a  flabby 
mouth  and  a  little  button  nose.  He  stood  in  a  broad 
patch  of  seedling  larkspurs  and  stripped  the  pods.  Some 
were  ripe  and  others  green.  Not  far  off  lay  seed  trays 
spread  over  a  path  in  the  sun.  Here  were  fruits  of  sweet 
pea,  flax  and  viola,  and  from  the  viola  trays  came  a  little 
"  crick,"  "  crick,"  as  the  triangular  capsules  burst  and 
discharged  their  treasure. 

"  Richard,"  said  Mistley,  "  come  here." 

The  nondescript  approached. 

"  D'j^ou  know  what's  happening?  "  asked  Mistley. 

"  Thank  God  I  don't  —  and  don't  want  to,"  answered 


96  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

Mr.  Bare.  *'  The  newspapers  only  make  my  indigestion 
worse,  so  I've  given  'em  up.  If  I  could  go  into  my  bed 
and  sleep  like  a  toad  for  the  next  two  year,  I'd  pray  to  let 
it  be  done." 

"  I'm  not  talking  about  the  war ;  I'm  talking  about  these 
violas.  You've  got  your  trays  all  side  by  side  and  the 
violas  are  popping,  and  half  their  seed  is  jumping  into  the 
other  trays,  and  then,  when  we  sell  our  seeds  to  the  buyers, 
they'll  get  into  trouble,  and  so  shall  we." 

"  True  —  all  true,"  admitted  Richard,  separating  the 
trays.  "  Be  damned  if  one  doesn't  learn  something  every 
day;  and  if  I  had  my  health,  I  should  be  a  clever  man 
before  I  die." 

"  I  thought  you  were  all  right  again." 

"  So  did  I ;  and  I  ate  a  steak  and  kidney  pudding  with 
the  faith  that  moves  mountains.  And  then  I  found  doctor 
was  a  liar.  I  was  very  near  onsensed  ^  by  my  pangs  that 
night." 

He  turned  to  Aveline. 

"  I'm  a  great  sufferer  in  the  feeding  parts  and  also  a 
great  eater.  The  result  of  that  is,  I've  never  had  enough 
till  I've  had  too  much." 

"  What  bad  luck,"  said  Aveline. 

"  A  square  meal  always  punishes  me,"  he  continued ; 
"  but  I  won't  be  beat  by  my  stomach.  We  English  never 
know  when  we're  beat,  thank  God,  so  I  shall  conquer,  or 
go  down  to  my  grave  a  beaten  man." 

"  A  house  divided  against  itself  falleth,  Richard." 

"  But  the  man  that  lets  his  belly  frighten  his  brain  is 
not  worthy  of  the  name.  Here  am  I,  a  thinking  creature 
with  an  immortal  soul,  and  am  I  going  to  let  the  lower 
organs  dictate  to  me  and  say,  '  You  shall  eat  this  and  you 
shan't  eat  that'?  It's  no  better  than  slavery,  as  I  told 
doctor.     I'll  show  who's  master  in  my  own  house !  " 

"  He  was  a  great  dancer  once,"  explained  Peter  to  Ave- 

1  Onsensed,  rendered  unconscious. 


IN  THE  GARDEN  97 

line.  "  Nobody  could  dance  like  Richard.  There's  a 
famous  Essex  dance  called  the  '  Purleigh  Hornpipe.'  It's 
danced  to  a  tambourine  and  a  melodion,  and  Richard  was 
renowned  for  it." 

"  Sometimes  I  think  I'll  dance  again,"  said  ]Mr.  Bare ; 
"  though  'tis  a  punishing  performance  after  the  first  hour 
or  so.  I've  danced  three  hours  by  the  clock  in  my  time, 
and  only  stopped  at  the  half-hours  for  beer.  Yes,  I've 
had  a  whole  taproom  spellbound  before  to-day ;  but  the 
joints  ain't  what  they  were  and,  for  that  matter,  the  com- 
pany isn't  what  it  was.  You  don't  hear  the  tambourine 
like  you  used  to  hear  it,  though  a  cheerful  instrument  and 
calling  for  some  skill.  The  young  men  are  too  proud  to 
learn  it,  I  believe,  so  I  dare  say  the  art  will  be  forgot  and 
the  world  the  poorer.  For  that  matter  the  '  Purleigh 
Hornpipe'  may  be  forgot,  too,  for,  God's  my  judge,  no- 
body will  ever  have  no  heart  to  dance  it  again  if  we  lose 
the  war." 

They  left  him  then,  and  Mistley  said  that  he  must  go 
back  to  his  work.  But  he  did  not  go.  Aveline  declared 
interest  in  horticulture  and  they  drifted  over  to  a  small 
party  of  men  digging.  Mr.  Bultitude  superintended  the 
operation  and  Gregory  Mushet  stood  among  the  workers. 
The  soil  was  in  pleasant  tilth  and  the  tulips  and  other 
bulbs  came  out  of  it  clean  and  bright. 

Mr.  Bultitude  showed  pleasure,  and  drew  Mistley's  at- 
tention. 

"  Look  at  these  things,"  he  said,  "  never  have  I  lifted 
finer.     They're  hazelling  wonderful  this  year." 

"  What's  '  hazelling,'  Mr.  Mushet.?  "  asked  Aveline,  and 
Gregory  explained. 

"  It  means  Nature's  last  polish  and  perfection  put  to 
the  ripened  root." 

"  The  amber,  or  russet,  or  silky  overcoat  of  the  bulb," 
said  Mistley. 

Aveline  picked  up  some  plump  scillas  and  caressed  them 
for  delight  of  their  pleasant  surface.     Then  Peter  Mistley 


98  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

went  his  way,  and  there  came  Margery  through  the  gar- 
dens with  some  news  for  her  uncle. 

Andrew  Hempson  had  gone  into  the  army  and  received 
a  commission. 

Gregory  expressed  his  satisfaction. 

"  It's  right  and  proper  and  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  he 
said ;  "  but  it  won't  end  there :  his  example  will  be  followed 
by  a  good  few  at  '  Colneside,'  who  are  holding  back.  But 
now  he's  gone,  they'll  all  be  going.  And  what  price  the 
gardens  then  ?  " 

"  You'll  have  to  get  women,"  said  Aveline ;  but  Gregory 
shook  his  head. 

"  God  forbid  we  should  have  a  flock  of  broody  hens 
scratching  here,"  he  said.  "  The  war  has  been  brought 
home  to  every  mind  fierce  enough,  without  a  bitter  thing 
like  that  happening." 

"  That's  very  old-fashioned,  Mr.  Mushet,"  declared 
Aveline. 

"  So's  gardening,"  answered  Gregory.  "  'Twas  Adam 
you'll  find  was  the  first  gardener.  He  dressed  the  garden, 
didn't  he,  not  her?  " 

Then  he  went  on  with  his  tulip  digging,  and  the  women 
departed  together, 

Margery  was  tearful  now  and  Aveline  sympathetic. 

"  It's  splendid,  if  you  ask  me.  If  you  were  a  French  or 
Italian  girl  you'd  dress  a  shrine  for  him  with  flowers  and 
pray  for  him  every  day.  Perhaps  he'll  speak  before  he 
goes,  Margery." 

"  No,  he  won't.     He'll  never  speak." 

"  He's  a  taciturn  man,  but  he  feels  a  great  deal.  His 
mother  likes  you  ever  so  much." 

"  It'll  never  be,  Aveline.  And  now,  perhaps,  he'll  go  to 
the  front  and  fall." 

"  We  must  hope  for  good  fortune  and  fame.  Talking 
of  French  and  Italian  girls,  there's  a  story  I  was  told  of 
an  old  rose-grower  at  Lyons  who  was  celebrated  for  his 


IN  THE  GARDEN  99 

new  roses,  and  there  came  a  year  when  a  maiden  rose, 
from  which  he  hoped  wonders,  put  out  its  first  buds.  On 
the  day  they  should  have  opened,  the  old  rose-grower  went 
to  see  them  and  found  that  every  one  of  them  had  been  cut 
off  in  the  night,  or  at  early  dawn.  The  next  year  exactly 
the  same  thing  happened  and,  just  before  the  moment  of 
perfection,  the  rosebuds  vanished.  But  the  third  year  a 
watch  was  set  over  the  rose,  and  a  girl  was  caught  about 
to  take  the  buds.  She  worked  in  the  violet  beds,  and  had 
a  lover  at  sea ;  and  this  particular  rose  went  yearly  to  a 
little  shrine  that  she  kept  decorated  for  her  sailor.  She'd 
built  up  a  sort  of  dream  about  the  rose  and  her  lover,  and 
fancied  that  he  would  be  safe  as  long  as  the  Virgin  of  the 
shrine  had  these  particular  roses.  The  old  rose-grower 
forgave  her,  explained  what  she  had  done,  and  gave  her  a 
bunch  of  other  roses  for  her  shrine.  But  she  went  away 
doubtful  and  troubled ;  and  when  she  heard  soon  after- 
wards that  her  man  was  drowned,  she  raved  against  the 
old  rose-grower  and  called  him  a  murderer  and  other  hard 
names." 

"  I  can  easily  understand  mixing  up  a  flower,  or  a  star, 
or  a  tree,  or  anything,  with  the  welfare  of  some  particular 
person,"  said  Margery. 

"  So  can  I.  Or  a  scent,  or  a  colour,  or  a  sound.  And 
some  such  things,  though  they  may  be  of  no  account  in 
themselves,  we  love  for  association's  sake ;  and  other 
things,  though  they  may  be  beautiful  every  way,  we  never 
stop  hating,  for  the  same  reason.  I  hate  the  smell  of  ver- 
bena and  the  sound  of  Gregorian  music,  or  the  sight  of 
alpine  plants,  more  than  any  other  scent,  or  sound,  or 
sight  in  the  world  —  not  their  fault,  but  my  misfortune." 

"  I  know,"  admitted  Margery.  "  If  anybody  Avas  to 
ask  me  my  favourite  flower  in  the  world,  I  shouldn't  tell 
them ;  but  if  you  were  to  ask  me,  I  should  tell  you  it  was 
that  poor,  little,  ugly  poppy  that  Andrew  brought  back 
after  his  fearful  adventures  and  clung  to  despite  all  dan- 


100  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

gers.  If  it  had  been  a  lovely  thing  and  a  great  success, 
I  dare  say  I'd  never  have  thought  of  it  again;  but  just 
because  it  failed,  and  he'd  hoped  so  much  from  it  and 
fought  so  bravely  to  keep  it,  now  it's  dear  to  me." 


CHAPTER  XI 

OF    THE    WEDDED    AND    MAKRIED 

When  Margery  Mayhew  learned  that  her  friend  meant 
again  to  visit  Brightlingsea,  she  wrote  in  secret  to  her  re- 
lations there.  Thus,  on  arriving,  Aveline  found  Teddy 
Mushet  waiting  at  the  station  to  greet  her.  He  brought 
a  message  from  his  mother  and  an  invitation  to  midday 
dinner. 

"  However  did  you  know  I  was  coming?  "  she  asked. 

"  Madge  wrote  me  a  postcard." 

"  How  like  her !  " 

"  Great  at  doing  kind  things,"  said  Teddy ;  and  Aveline 
accepted  Mrs.  Mushet's  invitation  and  promised  to  arrive 
soon  after  noon.  Teddy  was  in  khaki.  He  had  joined 
the  engineers. 

"  For  pontooning  and  such-like,  fishermen  come  in 
handy,"  he  explained. 

The  artist,  who  had  come  to  paint,  spent  her  morning 
to  poor  purpose,  for  any  attempt  to  sketch  was  immedi- 
ately suppressed.  Brightlingsea  was  under  military  con- 
trol to  the  foreshore,  and  she  might  not  so  much  as  make 
a  study  of  the  mud  banks,  the  Martello  tower,  or  the  dis- 
tant horizon  of  Mersea. 

Half  annoyed  and  half  amused,  she  abandoned  her  ef- 
forts and  went  to  see  Mrs.  INIushet.  Samuel  was  also  at 
home,  for  the  Peezcit  had  been  dry-docked  for  overhauling 
and  repairs. 

"  We  have  the  opening  of  the  fishery  next  week,"  he  said. 
"  It  is  a  great  occasion,  and  I  like  to  have  the  Peercit 
smart  for  it.     Everything  is  of  the  best  in  our  fisheries  — 

101 

STATE  COLLEGE  L. 

4  /     .«— >  »« 


102  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

the  best  ware  and  the  best  machinery  for  catching  them 
and  putting  them  on  the  market." 

"  And  the  best  men  in  Essex,"  said  Aveline. 

"  A  very  good  sort  of  man,  I  believe,"  admitted  Mr. 
Mushet.  "  And  the  best  oysters  in  the  Thames  estuary 
—  the  best  in  the  world,  for  that  matter ;  for  here  we've 
the  London  clay  under  us  and  the  most  perfect  conditions 
between  South  Foreland  and  Orford  Ness.  So,  of  course, 
the  Pyefleet  oysters  are  better  than  any  known  to  man." 

They  spoke  of  the  war,  and  Mrs.  Mushet  told  how"  she 
had  trembled  and  nearly  swooned  to  see  her  Teddy  dressed 
as  a  soldier. 

"  To  think,"  she  said,  "  that  one  man  can  doom  count- 
less better  men  than  himself  to  don  that  filthy  colour,  and 
stop  the  progress  of  the  world,  and  turn  the  rising  gen- 
eration into  a  lot  of  bloodthirsty  soldiers.  For  it  creeps 
into  'em  like  a  devil  when  they  get  the  khaki  on.  Their 
brains  are  turned  away  from  the  things  that  were  good  to 
them  before.  The  most  peace-loving  get  drawn  in,  and 
begin  to  think  like  soldiers  and  take  interest  in  all  the 
slaughter  and  the  inventions  for  killing.  I've  marked  it 
again  and  again  in  young  men  who've  tasted  it,  and  seen 
death,  and  been  splashed  with  the  blood  of  their  friends. 
They  go  out  one  thing  and  they  come  back  another." 

"  It's  a  peculiar  sort  of  a  war,"  said  Samuel  Mushet, 
"  because  we're  not  fighting  for  a  difference  of  opinion, 
but  a  difference  of  principle.  What  we  want  to  set  up 
can  only  be  set  up  in  the  ruin  of  Prussia's  good ;  and  what 
Germany  wants  to  set  up  can  only  be  set  up  in  the  ruin 
of  our  good.  Because  Prussia's  good  is  our  evil.  And 
whether  the  rest  of  Germany  will  ever  see  that  Prussia's 
wrong  and  we  are  right  is  a  question.  But  you  can't  get 
any  sort  of  progress  without  security,  and  because  Prussia 
threatens  the  security  of  the  w'orld,  it's  got  to  go  down." 

"  And  meantime  I'm  not  allowed  to  paint  pictures  in 
Brightlingsea,"  summed  up  Aveline.  "  So  I'm  going  for 
a  walk  instead,  to  look  at  3^our  beautiful  church." 


OF  THE  WEDDED  AND  MARRIED         103 

She  left  them  with  many  thanks  for  their  hospitality, 
dropped  her  luggage  at  the  station  and  then  wandered  off 
through  the  lanes  to  see  the  church ;  but  she  never  reached 
it,  for  familiar  objects  confronted  her  half  a  mile  from 
the  village.  Upon  a  bank  in  full  sunshine  a  man  lay 
asleep,  and  on  guard  over  him  sat  a  woman  smoking  a 
pipe. 

Emma  remembered  Aveline  very  well. 

"  Goodstruth  !  if  it  isn't !  "  she  said.  "  I  always  told 
William  we  should  meet  you  again  some  time ;  and  here  you 
are,  sure  enough.  Sit  down  along  with  us  —  there's  a 
pretty !  " 

Aveline,  to  whom  everything  unconventional  was  food 
and  drink,  took  a  seat  beside  Emma,  while  Miss  Darcy 
aroused  her  friend. 

"  Wake  up,  William,  here's  a  visitor,"  she  said  — "  that 
young  '  Grey  Eyes.'  " 

Then  she  turned  to  Aveline. 

"  We  always  put  our  own  names  to  people  when  we  talk 
of  'em.     And  Billy  called  you  '  Grey  Eyes.'  " 

"Is  he  better?"  asked  Aveline.  "I  heard  about  him 
from  your  brother  on  the  Peeziit." 

"  He's  well,"  declared  Emma,  "  or  nilly  well.  He  down't 
get  rid  of  his  cough  exactly,  but  he's  eating  more  and 
drinking  less,  ain't  you,  my  bird?  " 

Emma's  eyes  brightened  and  she  regarded  him  with  de- 
votion. 

"  Such  a  clever  creature !  Could  have  been  Lord 
Mayor  of  Lunnon  if  he'd  liked ;  but  God  made  him  work- 
shy,  so  all's  said." 

"How's  the  pictures  going  on?"  asked  Mr.  Am- 
brose. 

"  Nothing  much  doing,"  confessed  Aveline.  "  It  isn't 
a  time  for  pictures.  But  if  Emma  would  only  let  me 
paint  her,  I  could  do  something  really  interesting." 

"  Paint  William,"  said  Emma. 

"  No,  I  want  you  and  your  turkey  feather." 


104  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  You  mightn't  think  it,  but  she  was  a  rare  pretty 
woman  once,"  declared  Billy,  yawning. 

"  She's  lovely  now,"  said  Aveline.  "  I  can  see  her  sit- 
ting with  a  great  mass  of  torch  lilies  towering  up  behind 
her  in  your  brother's  garden.  It  would  be  a  huge  suc- 
cess." 

"  She's  too  good  for  Colchester,"  declared  Billy  irrele- 
vantly ;  "  that  woman  has  got  the  heart  of  a  queen,  and 
where  the  hell  I  should  be  without  her,  I  don't  know." 

"  Yes,  you  do,  my  sweetness :  you'd  be  in  your  grave," 
said  Emma ;  "  and  the  day  you  go  there,  I  shall  be  ready 
to  drop  in  after  you." 

"  That's  the  feeling  a  man  ought  to  put  into  his 
woman,"  declared  Billy.  "  Did  you  ever  feel  so  fine  about 
a  man, '  Grey  Eyes  '  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Aveline,  "  I  never  did." 

"  Ah ;  then  you'll  marry  again,"  he  said.  "  I  hope  you 
may  get  the  chance  to  rise  to  it ;  but  of  course  it  isn't  in 
every  man  to  lift  a  woman  to  such  a  height  as  that.  You 
want  first  a  man  of  rare  parts  —  such  as  I  am ;  and  you 
want  second  a  woman  big  enough  to  value  him  and  see  his 
greatness  —  such  as  Emma  is." 

"  Why  don't  you  marry  Emma.''  "  asked  Aveline. 

"  Tom  Darcy  asked  me  that  question  a  bit  ago,"  an- 
swered William,  "  and  what  I  answered  him,  I  won't 
answer  you,  because  I  know  how  to  speak  to  a  lady  as  well 
as  any  one.  But  I'd  have  given  you  credit  for  more  sense 
than  to  ask  a  damn  silly  question  like  that.  You  only 
asked  for  the  sake  of  something  to  say.  But  when  you 
come  to  Emma  and  me,  you  come  to  people  who  move 
as  far  above  all  the  little  rubbishy  arrangements  of  the 
community  as  the  moon  moves  above  Piccadilly  Circus  in 
London.  We  couldn't  be  more  married  than  we  are. 
And  what  do  you  know  about  marriage,  anyway  —  a  kid 
like  you,  that  must  have  been  wife  and  widow  inside  a  few 
years .f*  Mating  begins  when  3'ou  join  the  man;  but  mar- 
riage —  that  starts  afterwards.     It's  not   till  you  look 


OF  THE  WEDDED  AND  MARRIED        105 

back  and  the  gilt's  off  the  gingerbread  that  you  begin  to 
know  what  marriage  means.  It's  like  walking  into  a  man- 
trap with  your  eyes  open." 

"  I  suppose  it  often  is,"  admitted  Aveline ;  "  but  you 
never  know  till  you  try ;  and  then  it's  too  late." 

"  I've  seen  a  lot  of  marriage,  and  come  to  the  conclusion 
it's  a  human  contrivance  that's  very  nearly  played  out," 
said  William.  "  At  best  it's  a  safeguard  and  a  makeshift 
dodge  to  keep  human  nature  on  a  path  that  only  a  couple 
here  and  there  are  fitted  to  walk  in  comfort  and  decency 
—  like  me  and  Emma,  for  example.  Young  mated  folks 
are  generally  happy  enough,  before  marriage  sets  in ;  and 
old  married  couples  are  resigned,  though  it  generally 
breaks  one  or  t'other,  if  not  both,  to  weather  life  under 
the  same  roof ;  but  the  wrench  comes,  either  when  the  natu- 
ral state  of  mating  begins  to  turn  into  the  unnatural  state 
of  marriage,  or  when  a  man's  in  the  '  roaring  forties,'  as 
I  call  them,  and  his  spirit  says,  *  Now  or  never.'  If  they 
get  as  far  as  that  in  peace  and  comfort,  it's  the  man  who 
makes  the  trouble,  because,  by  that  time,  the  woman's 
thrown  up  the  sponge  and  her  instinct  is  to  let  well  alone. 
So  you  generally  get  the  static  spirit  of  the  female  up 
against  the  dynamic  instinct  of  the  male  —  an  irresistible 
force  striking  an  immovable  object  according  to  the 
paradox." 

"  Women  aren't  always  static,"  said  Aveline. 

"  They're  not,  and  that's  the  first  division  of  the  un- 
happy marriages.  They  break  away  earlier,  if  they've 
got  the  pluck  and  sense  to  do  it,  when  they  feel  the  bonds 
getting  too  tight." 

The  listener  nodded. 

"  You  know  something  about  it,"  she  said. 

"  He  knows  everything  about  it,"  declared  Emma. 
"  The  looker-on  with  brains  like  William  knows  all  there 
is  to  anything." 

"  A  married  man  who  falls  in  love  after  he's  forty-five 
is  as  desperate  as  a  murderer,"  went  on  Billy.     "  He  may 


106  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

have  a  pattern  wife  and  a  happy  home  and  be  quite  con- 
tent with  both ;  but  if  the  something  else  he's  found  out- 
side can  only  be  got  by  shattering  that  home  and  that 
wife,  he'll  shatter  'era  —  if  he's  that  sort  of  man.  Many, 
of  course,  would  balance  the  new  woman  against  the  old, 
and  argue  it,  and  decide  the  game  wasn't  worth  the  candle. 
But  that's  a  factor  none  can  figure  out  —  not  even  the 
man  himself,  till  the  storm  bursts  and  he's  in  it,  with  love 
calling  and  standing,  like  the  last  rose  of  summer,  between 
him  and  middle  age.  His  time's  getting  short,  and  his 
eyes  growing  dim  and  his  hair  grey.  And  a  man  in  that 
fix  will  be  very  like  to  weigh  all  he's  done  and  built  and 
achieved  as  dust  against  that  sunset  promise  of  a  bit  more 
love  before  the  light  of  passion's  out  for  ever." 

"  It's  all  according  as  he's  been  trained  and  broke  in 
in  his  youth,  and  if  he's  religious,  I  reckon,"  said  Emma. 

*'  It's  according  to  his  blood,  not  his  schooling.  Many 
a  man  who  would  willingly  die  for  his  country  won't  kill 
his  love  —  no,  not  for  his  own  home.  Many  conquer 
temptation,  if  they're  built  to  conquer  'em ;  many  don't, 
and  wouldn't  if  they  could.  It's  not  a  question  of  right 
or  wrong,  but  of  life  or  death  with  such,  and  it's  going 
to  take  a  bigger  thing  than  wife  or  children  to  keep  those 
men  from  what  they  want  with  every  fibre  of  their  heart 
and  soul.  And  most  males  are  built  that  way,  mind  you. 
It's  poverty  crushes  it  out  of  most  of  them,  not  morals. 
But  now  the  instinct  is  having  a  lot  more  to  say  than  when 
I  was  a  young  man,  and  the  Victorian  age  is  past ;  and 
once  let  women  begin  to  feel  the  same,  thanks  to  their  bet- 
ter education,  then  you'll  have  more  happy  matings  and 
fewer  unhappy  marriages.     That's  what  I  see  coming." 

"  The  children  ?  "  asked  Aveline.  "  No  doubt  a  man 
can  sometimes  make  the  best  of  both  worlds,  if  he's  rich 
enough,  and  recuperate  in  the  cool  cloisters  of  home  after- 
wards, without  denying  himself  the  nectar  and  ambrosia 
waiting  to  welcome  him  outside  it ;  but  what  about  his 
children.''  " 


OF  THE  WEDDED  AND  MARRIED         107 

"  Merely  a  matter  of  proper  law-making,"  said  Billy. 
"We're  frightened  away  from  the  subject  by  that  sheet 
and  turnip  we  call  the  Church,  and  that  cynical  creature 
we  call  the  State,  who  holds  up  the  sheet  and  turnip.  But 
the  moment  we  tackle  the  problem  in  a  rational  spirit, 
you'll  see  how  much  real  value  there  is  in  the  objections. 
They'll  come  in  your  time,  and  women  will  be  quite  as 
ready  to  welcome  them  as  men.  Freedom's  the  cry,  and 
if  we  are  not  to  be  free  in  the  vital  business  of  our  own 
lives  and  our  own  mates,  and  in  the  sacred  business  of 
human  love,  then  where  does  freedom  come  in?  " 

Aveline  agreed  to  this.  Her  face  flushed  with  excite- 
ment. 

"  People  are  getting  braver,"  she  said. 

"  Corpses  handcuffed  together  —  that's  what  fully  half 
of  the  married  are,"  declared  Billy.  "  Everything  that 
was  worth  anything  in  the  creatures  has  been  killed,  and 
they  just  go  on  revolving  round  each  other  like  two  dead 
stars  —  heart  dead,  soul  dead,  even  pluck  to  pray  for  re- 
lease dead.  And  now  I've  told  you  a  bit  about  it,  don't 
you  ask  me  and  Emma  why  we  ain't  married.  And  don't 
think  being  wedded  and  being  married  are  the  same  thing, 
because  they  are  not  once  in  a  blue  moon." 

"  Do  you  understand  him,  Emma?  "  asked  Aveline. 

"  Good  Lord,  no !  "  she  answered.  "  He  talks  over  my 
head  most  times,  drunk  or  sober ;  but  I  only  know  that 
when  we're  dead,  my  dust  will  want  to  blow  to  his,  and  find 
no  rest  in  air  or  water  till  it  have." 

"  We  all  know  that  sort  of  home,  where  everything  goes 
on  a  pretence ;  and  we  know  what  happens  sometimes  of  a 
night  when  the  pair  are  in  bed  and  the  light  out.  The 
only  way  is  the  brave  way  —  to  cut  a  loss  and  get  clean 
and  keep  your  vitality,"  summed  up  Billy. 

Aveline  was  in  the  situation  of  one  who  hears  his  own 
sentiments  echoed  forcibly  by  another  and  mentally  re- 
joices to  find  that  another  shares  them.  By  sharing  it, 
the  mouthpiece  is  exalted  to  a  pinnacle  of  wisdom,  and  the 


108  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

listener  does  not  stay  to  consider  the  value  of  the  new 
voice,  or  whether  it  be  worthy  or  worthless  in  itself.  He 
applauds  because  the  other  repeats  his  own  conviction  and 
thereby  doubles  its  importance. 

"  It  must  be  a  glorious  thing,"  she  said,  "  to  find  that 
other  one." 

"  Oh!     Then  you  didn't .''  "  asked  Emma. 

"  No,  I  didn't." 

"  Better  luck  next  time  then.  There's  a  lot  has  seen 
you  must  have  fallen  in  love  with  you,  I'm  sure." 

"  I'm  not  in  love  with  marriage  after  hearing  your 
Billy,"  said  Aveline.  "  There's  a  great  deal  of  silly  senti- 
ment about  it." 

"  There's  people  silly  sentimental  about  everything," 
answered  Emma.  "  You  can't  shake  sense  into  some  folk. 
When  my  father  ran  away  from  mother  and  went  foreign 
and  never  came  home  again,  she  cry  her  eyen  out  for 
months  and  said  —  what  d'you  think.?  'The  empty 
chair's  so  sad ! '  And  I  kept  on  saying, '  The  empty  pock- 
et's sadder.'  But  I  durseri  speak  harsh  things  of  my 
father  afore  her,  for  she'd  have  flown  at  me  if  I  had." 

"  I  never  quite  met  her  like,"  declared  William.  "  You 
couldn't  move  her  more  than  a  rock,  and  she'd  hear  no 
word  against  her  husband,  and  laugh  at  naked  facts.  For 
my  part,  I  always  think  it  weak-minded  to  treat  God 
A'mighty  in  that  spaniel  fashion,  and  lick  the  boot  that 
kicks  you;  but  there's  lots  will  do  it  and  properly  rejoice 
to  feel  somebody  else  is  dusting  the  floor  with  them. 
That's  the  pride  of  the  humble:  to  feel  the  foot  of  the 
strong  on  their  necks,  and  to  suff^er  and  suffer,  and  lick 
their  lips  at  their  own  torture,  and  give  the  strong  their 
blood  to  drink  if  they  like.  The  world's  full  of  them  sheep 
people.  Come  on,  Emma.  It's  time  we  trailed  home.  I 
want  some  tea." 

"  Come  along  wi'  us  and  have  a  bite  at  my  brother's," 
suggested  Emma ;  but  Aveline  declined. 

"  I  must  catch  my  train,"  she  said.     "  I  meant  to  go 


OF  THE  WEDDED  AND  MARRIED        109 

and  see  the  church ;  but  I've  heard  a  sermon  instead,  from 
your  William." 

"  He'd  larn  anybody  but  himself,"  declared  Emma. 
"  If  he  was  half  so  clever  as  his  cleverness,  I  should  have 
a  silk  gown  home  in  a  box." 

Peter  Mistley  filled  Aveiine's  thoughts  on  her  return 
journey  and  she  wondered  how  far  he  would  have  agreed 
with  William.  Upon  the  whole  she  believed  that  Mistley 
would  not  have  echoed  the  tramp's  sentiments ;  yet  she 
could  not  feel  sure  of  that. 

"  He  knows  nothing  about  it,"  reflected  Aveline ; 
"  whereas  William  and  I  have  so  much  more  experience  of 
life  than  Peter." 


CHAPTER  XII 

HELENA    AND    AVELINE 

Me.  Ambrose  was  talking  to  his  wife. 

"  We  open  the  Fisheries,  with  our  usual  ancient  cere- 
monial, shortly,"  he  said ;  "  and,  as  Mayor  for  the  year, 
I  am  the  central  figure.  It  is  a  quaint  and  venerable 
custom." 

"  I  wish  I  could  come.  It's  sure  to  be  charming,  and 
you'll  do  it  so  well  and  make  it  all  so  distinguished,"  de- 
clared Helena. 

"  One  likes  to  lend  one's  weight  to  these  observances  of 
old  time.     Anything  dignified  always  attracts  me." 

"  You're  so  dignified  yourself,"  she  said. 

"  I  wish  you  could  come ;  but  the  rite  belongs  to  a  day 
before  the  sex  took  any  part  in  public  affairs.  However, 
I  have  it  in  my  mind  to  ask  a  guest,  perhaps  two.  It  has 
occurred  to  me  sometimes  that  it  might  be  well  if  some  of 
us  at  '  Colneside  '  better  understood  the  diversity  and  — 
and  importance  of  my  various  activities." 

"  Surely  everybody  knows  ?  " 

"  They  know ;  but  don't  realise.  To  be  a  mayor,  if 
you've  not  been  a  mayor  yourself,  conveys  only  a  vague 
idea  to  the  mind.  Peter  Mistley,  for  example,  knows  I  am 
Mayor  of  Colchester.  But  he  has  never  seen  me  in  the 
mayoral  chair,  or  at  full  tide  of  business,  with  my  officers 
about  me." 

"  You  want  to  impress  him?  " 

"  I  think  perhaps  if  he  had  a  glimpse  of  me  outside 
'  Colneside  ' " 

"  Isn't  he  civil?  Doesn't  he  show  the  same  tact  and 
proper  feeling  as  Mr.  Seabrook  shows  ?  " 

110 


HELENA  AND  AVELINE  111 

"  When  you  say  '  Seabrook,'  you  just  mark  the  differ- 
ence." 

"  So  you're  going  to  reward  Mr.  Mistley  for  being  a 
little  too  independent?  No,  that's  not  my  meaning 
eithei',"  Helena  corrected  herself,  for  she  seldom  let  her 
wit  outrun  her  wisdom  with  Parkyn.  "  It's  a  good  idea, 
my  love.  He'll  see  that  '  Colneside '  and  the  making  of 
plans  isn't  everything." 

"  I'm  glad  3^ou  think  so.  But  you  must  not  entirely 
subtract  the  wish  on  my  part  to  give  him  pleasure." 

"  Shall  you  ask  Mr.  Seabrook  too.''  Do.  It  will  be  a 
little  reward  for  all  his  kindness." 

"  Not  a  reward,  Helena.  The  reward  —  to  put  it  so 
—  consists  in  the  fact  that  Seabrook  knows  he  is  persona 
grata  here." 

"  Then  it's  just  pure  kindness  on  your  part,  dear  one. 
When  he  was  here  last,  Mr.  Seabrook  interested  me  im- 
mensely. He  believes  that  Mr.  Mistley  is  attracted  by 
that  pretty  girl  who  has  come  to  Colchester  —  the  painter, 
who  did  that  drawing  of  the  pond." 

Mr.  Ambrose  lifted  his  eyes  to  Aveline's  picture,  which 
had  been  purchased  by  Helena. 

"  I  fear  the  young  woman  will  not  excel  in  the  pictorial 
art.  If  she  is  allowing  herself  to  think  of  Mr.  Mistley, 
that  would  argue  a  certain  callousness  of  disposition,  so 
soon  after  the  death  of  her  husband." 

"  She's  not  that  sort  at  all.  She's  a  most  womanly 
woman.  There's  nothing  in  it  on  her  side,  for  certain. 
As  to  her  art,  it  is  quite  good,  really,  Parkyn.  You're 
rather  old-fashioned,  j^ou  know,  about  pictures." 

"  I  expect  I  am,"  he  admitted.  "  But  I  suppose  all 
agree  that  art  is  the  nearest  approach  to  Nature  we  can 
attain  by  our  humble  efforts." 

"  Oh,  no,  they  don't,  my  darling,"  answered  Helena. 
"  But  I'd  never  convince  j^ou.  You're  a  dear,  old  mid- 
Victorian,  and  I  wouldn't  have  you  different  for  the 
world !  " 


112  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

He  smiled  indulgently. 

"  I  must  see  the  lady  some  day  for  myself." 

"  I'm  not  sure  if  Mr.  Mistley  is  good  enough  for  her." 

"  Very  few  men  are  good  enough  for  a  good  woman," 
declared  Mr.  Ambrose  ponderously.  "  However,  I  will  in- 
vite both  the  draughtsmen  to  the  Fishery  opening." 

He  did  so,  and  Mistley  and  Seabrook  each  received  a 
letter  from  the  master  of  "  Colneside." 

Seabrook  accepted  by  return  with  becoming  gratitude ; 
the  elder  waited  for  a  post,  and  showed  his  letter  to  Ave- 
line.  He  had  asked  her  and  Margery  Mayhew  to  drink 
tea  at  his  rooms,  and  Aveline  appreciated  the  evidence  of 
intimacy  when  Mistley  handed  to  her  the  letter  of  invita- 
tion. They  were  growing  very  friendly  now,  and  knew 
well  enough  they  desired  one  another.  In  the  man's  case 
his  emotion  had  run  on  to  the  stage  of  exaggeration,  and 
he  already  created  amazing  pictures  of  Aveline's  mind  and 
soul.  He  magnified  with  the  presbyopia  of  love ;  while  she 
had  not  reached  that  height,  but  was  on  the  way  thereto. 

"  You'll  go,"  she  said ;  "  and  then  you'll  see  that  what 
I  told  you  about  the  saltings  was  true.  And  I've  had  a 
letter,  too  —  from  Mrs.  Ambrose.  I'm  tremendously  ex- 
cited, for  she's  going  to  get  me  a  pupil." 

"  You've  been  telling  Mrs.  Hempson  you'll  have  to  leave 
her,"  said  Margery ;  "  but  it's  no  good  thinking  you're 
going  to,  for  she  won't  let  you  go." 

"  I  love  her,"  declared  Aveline,  "  and  I  should  hate  to 
leave  her :  she's  been  very  kind  to  me ;  but  I  shan't  be  able 
to  run  to  two  rooms  much  longer." 

Mistley  fell  silent  while  she  joked  about  the  need  for 
leaving  Mrs.  Hempson.  He  was  moved  to  hear  this  fact ; 
but  her  reduced  means  seemed  to  bring  her  nearer.  Peter 
had  already  suspected  the  situation. 

"  Don't  charge  this  possible  pupil  too  little,"  he  said. 
"  They'll  think  nothing  of  you  if  you  only  ask  a  very  small 
fee.     Pitch  it  pretty  high  to  start  with  anyhow;  then  if 


HELENA  AND  AVELINE  113 

they  grumble,  or  Mrs.  Ambrose  thinks  you  ought  to  ask 
less,  you  can  come  down  gracefully." 

She  promised  to  obey,  and  after  Aveline  and  Margery 
left  him  and  returned  homeward  on  foot  to  Mile  End,  the 
latter  spoke  of  Mistley  with  admiration.  She  was  genu- 
ine in  her  praise,  yet  allowed  it  to  be  a  little  tinctured 
with  the  knowledge  that  Mistley  and  Aveline  evidently 
came  closer  and  closer  together.  Margery,  quickened  by 
personal  experience  of  the  tender  emotions,  perceived 
what  the  man  and  woman  were  each  to  the  other,  and  she 
had  tried  more  than  once  to  win  a  confession  on  the  sub- 
ject from  Aveline  and  failed. 

Everybody,  however,  seemed  in  league  to  talk  to  Aveline 
of  Mistley,  and  if  Margery  and  Mrs.  Hempson  and  an- 
other here  and  there  did  so  of  set  purpose,  others  only  fell 
accidentally  on  Mistley's  name.  Of  such  —  so  at  least 
the  visitor  at  first  supposed  —  was  Mrs.  Ambrose ;  but  in 
truth,  as  appeared,  Helena  did  not  speak  in  ignorance 
when  Aveline  accepted  an  invitation  and  came  to  tea  at 
the  Manor  House  of  Mersea. 

The  day  was  bright,  and  she  took  the  public  motor  and 
enjoyed  the  drive  and  the  view.  Then  came  Miss  Chaffe, 
all  smiles  and  laughter  and  goodwill.  She  did  not  know 
anything  about  drawing,  it  seemed ;  but  dear  Helena 
wanted  her  to  learn ;  and  no  doubt  Mrs.  Brown  would  soon 
teach  her.  She  spoke  as  though  the  art  of  drawing  must 
be  on  a  par  with  the  craft  of  knitting  socks,  and  Aveline's 
heart  failed ;  but  Helena  foretold  that  Nelly  Chaffe  would 
soon  develop  talent,  "  because  music  and  painting  always 
go  together,"  and  she  decided  the  fees  without  asking  Ave- 
line, and  fixed  them  at  twice  the  rate  the  teacher  intended 
to  suggest. 

"  That's  too  much  for  a  beginner,"  declared  the  artist. 

"  Not  at  all.  The  beginner  is  always  most  difficult  to 
teach ;  and  though  Nelly  won't  be  difficult,  still  a  beginner 
is   a  beginner.     I'm   sure   she's   got   a   sense   of   colour. 


114  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

That's  the  great  thing.  You're  such  a  colourist  yourself 
that  you'll  soon  make  her  feel  it." 

It  was  quite  clear  that  Aveline  had  been  taken  under 
Helena's  wing.  She  was  to  be  patronised  and  brought 
into  notice.  She  was  "  sweet,"  and  a  "  genius,"  and  pos- 
sessed all  the  virtues.  Aveline  found  the  atmosphere  of 
admiration  pleasant  enough.  She  liked  Helena  with  a  sub- 
stratum of  doubt.  Her  intuition  read  Mrs.  Ambrose  up 
to  a  point ;  indeed  she  found  something  of  herself  reflected 
in  the  other  woman.  But  she  knew  enough  to  know  that 
she  did  not  know  all  about  Mrs.  Ambrose,  and,  after  two 
or  three  meetings,  began  to  believe  there  might  be  more 
in  her  patroness  than  appeared.  But  was  Helena  likely 
to  do  anything  that  would  meet  with  her  disapproval.'* 
That  question  Aveline  asked  herself  and  answered  defi- 
nitely —  out  of  her  knowledge  of  herself  rather  than  her 
knowledge  of  the  other.  Yet  her  knowledge  of  herself  was 
faulty  and  built  on  very  shadowy  foundations.  Looking 
back  she  felt  no  remorse,  and  life,  as  it  unfolded,  seemed 
more  and  more  to  condone  her  own  past  actions ;  but  yet 
the  underlying,  inherited  respect  of  tradition  belonged  to 
her.  She  was  like  many  people,  who,  while  they  pardon 
their  own  conduct,  often  (to  their  own  surprise)  lament 
similar  courses  of  action  in  others. 

Finally  Aveline  explained  this  anomaly  to  her  own  satis- 
faction. It  was  undoubtedly  the  opinion  of  Peter  Mistley 
that  awoke  in  her  the  doubt,  and  reserved  judgment  before 
Helena's  friendship.  For  Peter  did  not  like  Mrs.  Am- 
brose, and  Aveline  suspected  that  his  distrust  had  served 
to  cloud  her  own  view.  Yet  even  so  she  blamed  herself, 
for  what  could  be  advanced  against  the  lady?  The  ele- 
ment of  patronage  did  not  disturb  Aveline.  Yet  she  could 
comprehend  Mistley's  pride  and  his  disdain  of  Seabrook, 
who  also  appeared  to  enjoy  Helena's  goodwill  and  sup- 
port. She  supposed  that  what  might  be  reasonable  in  a 
woman  ought  to  be  impossible  for  a  man.  She  did  not 
mind  being  patronised  herself,  but  would  have  resented  the 


HELENA  AND  AVELINE  115 

spectacle  of  anybody  patronising  Mistley.  So  she  held 
judgment  in  abeyance,  and  was  meantime  very  glad  to  ac- 
cept friendship  of  so  practical  a  nature  as  Mrs.  Ambrose 
offered.  In  any  case  the  matter  was  unimportant  to  Ave- 
line  now,  for  with  growing  love,  all  other  things  grew 
dwarfed.  Even  her  vanishing  means  troubled  her  but  lit- 
tle: a  far  more  mighty  complication  threatened,  and  her 
immediate  future  was  beset  with  difficulties.  A  strenuous 
and  ordered  mind  had  fainted  under  them;  but  her  in- 
herent volatility  promised  to  bring  her  through.  The 
storm  that  throws  the  oak  will  leave  the  willow  unharmed. 

Mrs.  Ambrose  talked  of  men  when  the  subject  of  pic- 
tures had  been  exhausted. 

"  What  an  example  they  set  us  of  courage  and  bravery ! 
When  people  praise  me  for  my  humble  Red  Cross  efforts, 
I  scarcely  have  patience  to  reply.  The  manhood  of  Eng- 
land has  been  magnificent.  The  way  we  have  risen  to  this 
dreadful  test !  I  wonder  if  other  women  are  as  proud  as 
I  am,  or  if  they  lack  the  imagination  to  see  the  immensity 
of  it  all.  I  think  every  British  woman  ought  to  feel  her- 
self a  Britannia.     I'm  sure  I  do." 

Aveline  was  conscious  that  Mrs.  Ambrose  tried  to  look 
like  Britannia  and,  indeed,  succeeded  fairly  well. 

"  A  time  is  coming,"  continued  the  lady,  "  when  more 
and  more  will  fall  upon  us,  as  more  and  more  of  our  men 
are  wanted.  For  instance  artists,  such  as  Mr.  Peter  Mist- 
ley,  at  '  Colneside,'  may  be  called." 

"  Artists  wouldn't  hesitate  for  a  minute,  you  may  be 
certain,"  said  Aveline. 

"  But  what  could  they  do  ?  Can  you  turn  an  artist  into 
a  soldier?  "  asked  Miss  Chaffe. 

"  You  can,"  declared  Helena;  "  an  artist,  just  because 
he  is  an  artist,  may  rise  to  anything.  Look  at  the  versa- 
tile geniuses  of  the  Renaissance.  It  is  the  wonderful  thing 
about  the  creative  instinct  that  you  can  pour  it  into  any 
channel,  and  immediately  flowers  spring  up  on  the  banks 
of  that  channel.     Turn  an  artist  into  a  soldier  and  vou 


116  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

will  get  a  super-soldier ;  and  if  artists  condescended  to  go 
into  politics,  then  you  get  an  order  of  politicians  whose 
ideas  would  create  a  new  world,  and  not  leave  beauty  out 
of  human  and  national  relations.  I  am  sure  Mr.  Mistley 
would  make  a  fine  soldier,  and  I  dare  say  Mr.  Seabrook 
might,  too." 

"  He's  such  a  gentle  little  man,"  said  Aveline. 

"Gentle,  yes;  little,  no.  At  least  I  should  judge  him 
to  be  rather  above  the  middle  height." 

"  He  always  seems  little  to  me,"  said  innocent  Aveline. 

"  You'll  find  that  perfectly  proportioned  men  never  sug- 
gest height,  any  more  than  perfectly  proportioned  towers, 
or  mountains.  If  a  man  is  too  thin,  or  too  stout,  he  looks 
too  tall  or  too  short  as  the  case  may  be ;  so  does  a  moun- 
tain. Size  is  nothing;  proportion  is  everything.  But  if 
I  had  my  way  I  should  despatch  Mr.  Seabrook  to  France 

—  not  to  fight,  but  to  sing  at  the  base.  They  call  it  *  the 
base,'  don't  they?  His  wonderful  voice  would  uplift  all 
who  heard  it,  and  send  the  fighters  back  to  the  trenches 
ready  for  deeds  of  heroism.  To  send  him  to  the  trenches 
would  be  to  waste  a  tonic,  a  fountain  of  melody  far  more 
precious  than  his  individual  effort  in  arms.  Now  in  the 
case  of  Mr.  Mistley,  how  would  that  apply  ?  " 

She  turned  to  Aveline,  desiring  to  learn  her  opinion  of 
Peter  and  not  wishing  further  criticism  of  the  other 
draughtsman. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Aveline.  "  He  said  to  me,  when 
he  was  talking  about  it,  that  if  the  need  presently  arose, 
he  should  go." 

"  It  is  the  simple  sense  of  duty  that  is  so  fine  and  im- 
pressive," pattered  on  Helena.  "  I  love  men  for  that  — 
all  men.  I  believe  they've  got  a  higher  sense  of  duty  than 
we  have.  They're  simpler-minded  than  we  are.  That's 
why  they  dominate  us.  We  have  much  more  power,  really, 
if  we  could  mobilise  it  —  I  said  that  about  the  suffragettes 

—  but  we  are  so  complex  and  so  prone  to  let  the  heart 
master  the  head,  that  we  never  really  give  our  brains  a 


HELENA  AND  AVELINE  117 

chance ;  and  the  result  is  —  however,  that  will  all  be  al- 
tered after  the  war.  The  women  have  mobilised  over  the 
war  magnificently,  and  they  will  keep  so  afterwards.  I 
have  mobilised ;  you  have  mobilised ;  we  all  have  mobilised." 

"  I  haven't,"  said  Aveline.  "  And  I  feel  ashamed  about 
it.     I'm  doing  nothing." 

"  But  Mr.  Mistley  ?  He  seems  to  me  a  splendid  fellow, 
and  more  than  an  artist  —  a  fine  man." 

"  To  be  an  artist  is  to  be  a  fine  man,"  said  Aveline. 
"  At  least  to  me." 

"  Not  always.  But,  of  course,  the  great  artists  are 
generally  great  men  too  —  great  soldiers,  even.  Michael- 
angelo  and  Phidias,  and  so  on.  Does  he  ever  speak  about 
world  subjects,  or  only  gardening  art.f*  " 

"  He  finds  everything  interesting." 

"  That's  what  I  say  about  men :  they're  so  large-minded. 
But  you  must  have  defects  with  qualities.  The  worst  of 
large-minded  men  is  that  often  they're  large-minded  just 
where  their  wives  don't  want  them  to  be.  You  can't  have 
wisdom  and  charm  and  universal  knowledge  and  so  on, 
without  the  material  from  which  it  springs.  In  sex  mat- 
ters, for  instance  —  you  needn't  listen  to  us,  Nelly  — 
there  is  one  thing  that  a  man  loves  better  than  his  wife,  or 
even  his  mistress  in  the  long  run,  and  that  is  variety.  The 
really  large-minded  man  must  and  will  have  variety  for  the 
health  of  his  soul.     We  don't  understand  that." 

"  Yes,  we  do,"  declared  Aveline ;  "  because  some  of  us 
are  the  same." 

This  assertion  interested  Mrs.  Ambrose  very  much. 

"  Fancy  a  chit  of  a  child  like  you  saying  so !  "  she  ex- 
claimed. "  What  the  rising  generation  is  coming  to ! 
But  I  hope  you're  wrong.  I  believe  very  few  of  us  want 
variety,  if  we  are  married  to  the  man  we  really  love." 

"  That's  just  it,"  said  Aveline,  with  memories  of  Billy 
and  Emma,  "  very  few  of  us  are  married  to  the  man  we 
really  love." 

"  I  wonder.''     It's  rather  sad  to  hear  a  girl  speak  so. 


118  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

But  perhaps  we,  who  are  perfectly  and  supremely  happy, 
can  hardly  judge;  and  so  we  make  the  mistake  of  suppos- 
ing that  all  the  others  are  as  happy  as  we  are.  Still, 
there's  no  doubt  so  many  novels  wouldn't  be  written  about 
unhappy  marriages  if  they  did  not  happen.  What  does 
Stevenson  say?  That  marriage  is  only  '  a  friendship 
recognised  by  the  police.'  It  all  comes  back  to  my  view. 
Variety  is  the  salt  of  the  male  existence  —  I  don't  mean, 
of  course,  only  where  we  are  concerned.  We're  merely  a 
part  of  their  lives,  and  not  the  most  important  part." 

"  We  shouldn't  think  any  the  better  of  them  if  we  were," 
declared  Aveline. 

"  A  man  always  steals  the  first  kiss,  and  a  woman  always 
begs  the  last  —  it's  all  summed  up  in  that ;  the  attitude  of 
the  sexes,  my  dear.  Not  original,  however.  I  should 
never  have  made  the  observation  myself  —  much  too  old- 
fashioned  and  much  too  happy." 

Mr.  Ambrose  returned  home  and  entered  the  drawing- 
room  for  a  cup  of  tea.  Then  the  subject  was  dropped, 
and  the  manner  of  Helena  changed.  She  made  much  of 
her  husband,  and  ordered  fresh  tea  to  be  brought. 

"  I  never  expected  you,  or  we  should  have  waited,"  she 
said. 

"  Our  meeting  was  postponed  owing  to  the  failure  of 
certain  people  to  answer  municipal  letters,"  he  explained. 
"  It  is  quite  extraordinary  how  unbusinesslike  business  men 
can  be.     I  judge  nobody ;  but  the  meeting  was  postponed." 

Mr.  Ambrose  discussed  painting  with  Aveline,  and  was 
both  courteous  and  kind. 

"  It's  not  for  me  to  advise  a  professional,"  he  said ;  "  but 
I  feel,  with  all  humility,  that  you  must  consider  things  as 
they  really  appear  a  little  more  in  your  works  of  art. 
That  would  enable  us  to  understand  them  better.  I  speak 
as  a  plain  man,  and  represent  the  majority  of  cultured 
people,  who  are  not  ignorant  of  what  a  picture  should  be ; 
because  we  all  have  some  knowledge  of  the  greatest  exam- 
ples in  the  world.     I  refer,  of  course,  to  the  Old  Masters." 


HELENA  AND  AVELINE  119 

*'  But,  my  darling,  the  Old  Masters  are  so  old,"  argued 
Mrs.  Ambrose.  "  Art  cannot  stand  still  for  the  Old  Mas- 
ters.    It  must  go  on  —  upward,  ever  upward." 

"  If  it  can  surpass  Titian  and  Raphael,  I,  for  one,  shall 
be  the  first  to  bend  the  knee." 

"  Just  because  it  can't  surpass  them,  it  wants  to  find 
new  channels  and  be  different,"  explained  Aveline.  "  It 
wants  to  say  new  things  in  a  new  language  that's  never 
been  used  by  art  before." 

"  If  a  thing  has  been  supremely  well  said,  only  vanity, 
or  ignorance,  would  seek  to  say  it  again,"  declared  Parkyn 
in  his  magistral  manner. 

"  We  don't  want  to  say  it  again,  Mr.  Ambrose.  We 
want  to  say  something  new." 

"  But  is  what  you  want  to  say  worth  saying .'*  "  he  asked. 

"  We  hope  to  show  it  is." 

Later  in  the  evening  Mr.  Ambrose,  with  characteristic 
courtesy,  accompanied  Aveline  to  the  motor  omnibus  which 
would  convey  her  back  to  Colchester.  His  wife  walked 
with  them,  and  the  visitor  took  a  grateful  farewell  and 
departed. 

"  She's  going  to  give  Nelly  some  lessons  in  drawing. 
Isn't  she  a  dear?  "  asked  Helena,  as  she  and  her  husband 
turned  homeward. 

"  She  has  the  bloom  and  the  charm  of  youth,  and  con- 
ceals her  sufferings  almost  too  completely,"  said  the  mas- 
ter of  "  Colneside." 

"  What  sufferings  ?  " 

"  Is  she  not  a  newly-made  widow  ?  " 

*'  Yes ;  one  doesn't  realise  that,  I  admit." 

"  Again,  I  had  rather  hoped  from  her  modesty  of  man- 
ner and  nice  deference  to  j^ou  and  me,  that  she  was  one  of 
the  older-fashioned  type.  I  had  hoped  to  see  her  travel 
back  to  Colchester  inside  the  omnibus ;  but  you  see  she 
went  on  the  top." 

"  For  the  sake  of  the  air  and  the  view.  That's  nothing, 
my  dear." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose ;  "  I  suppose  not." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

OPENING    THE    FISHERY 

England  still  remembers  many  an  ancient  rite,  and  pre- 
serves her  old-time  ceremonials  with  jealous  care.  Indeed, 
most  towns  of  respectable  antiquity  possess  their  proper 
observances  from  the  past,  and  hold  good  citizens  who  are 
zealous  to  support  them.  Such  men  preserve  their  local 
traditions,  and  look  to  it  that  ancient  practice  shall  not 
perish. 

The  opening  of  the  Colne  Oyster  Fishery  was  such  a 
survival.  The  event  is  of  autumn,  and  on  a  day  ap- 
pointed, Mr.  Parkyn  Ambrose,  with  the  chief  officers  of 
Colchester,  proceeded  to  the  estuary,  there  to  enact  an 
ordinance  from  mediaeval  time. 

The  Mayor  and  his  Councillors,  together  with  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Fishery  Board  and  such  guests  as  were  bidden, 
set  out  from  Colchester  soon  after  nine  o'clock.  With 
them  went  the  Town  Sergeant,  who  carried  the  mace  in  a 
red  baize  bag;  and  under  his  charge  also  was  a  tin  box 
containing  the  robes  of  the  Mayor  and  the  wig  and  gown 
of  the  Town  Clerk. 

Some  fifty  Burghers  supported  the  head  of  the  Borough. 
Peter  Mistley  and  Geoffrey  Seabrook  knew  several  among 
the  throng,  and  travelled  with  acquaintance.  The  Mayor 
had  greeted  them  and  other  visitors  on  the  railway  plat- 
form. 

The  Chairman  of  the  Fishery  also  joined  the  company. 
He  was  an  old  man,  but  entered  upon  the  labours  of  the 
day  with  the  enthusiasm  of  youth. 

"  What  he  does  not  know  about  oysters  is  not  worth 
knowing,"  said  the  Fisheries  Manager,  behind  the  Chair- 

120 


OPENING  THE  FISHERY  121 

man's  back.  Indeed,  it  was  the  truth.  The  veteran  held 
the  history  of  Colchester  and  its  industries  at  his  finger- 
tips. 

"  In  Rome  to-day,"  he  said  to  the  Town  Clerk,  with 
whom  he  travelled,  "  men  still  dig  up  Colne  oyster  shells 
from  the  strata  of  the  Second  Century.  The  Romans 
knew  a  good  thing  when  they  found  it." 

But  the  Town  Clerk,  who  had  not  before  plaj^ed  his  part 
in  the  coming  ceremony,  was  more  interested  in  the  Fishery 
and  its  grants  and  liberties. 

"  Richard  the  First  confirmed  our  Charter,"  explained 
the  Chairman,  "  and  the  preamble  asserts,  that  even  at  his 
date,  our  rights  belonged  to  time  immemorial,  so  3'ou'll 
guess  they  are  not  of  yesterday.  Believe  me,  Boadicea 
ate  a  plate  of  '  natives  '  after  she  had  turned  the  Romans 
out  of  Camalodunum,  as  Colchester  was  called  in  her  time, 
and  Blackwater  ran  red  with  their  blood." 

By  wooded  Wyvenhoe,  the  train  proceeded  over  the 
levels  beside  Colne  until  it  ran  out  presently  into  the  region 
of  the  saltings,  where  mud  and  water  shone  brilliantly 
under  a  cloudless  sun.  The  estuary  swiftly  opened ;  tufts 
of  feathery  tamarisk  w^aved  on  the  low  shores  and  the  sea 
lavender  lighted  the  flats  with  its  purple,  where  they 
stretched  out  their  fingers  into  the  tidal  ways.  A  blue 
dome  of  sky  lifted  above  the  distant  rim  of  elms  and  ripen- 
ing corn,  while  under  the  glittering  water,  up  every  creek, 
in  every  tongue  of  the  tide  and  far  away  to  sea,  the  oysters 
dwelt  in  millions. 

At  Brightlingsea  Mr.  Ambrose  and  his  supporters  came 
presently  to  the  Hard,  where  boats  already  awaited  them, 
and  the  Peezcit,  in  glory  of  bunting  and  fresh  paint,  lay 
off  shore  with  steam  up. 

But  a  cloud  was  destined  to  mar  the  Mayor's  embarka- 
tion. Solemn  as  a  doge  he  trod  the  jetty,  when  suddenly 
from  the  local  throng  assembled  to  see  him  start,  there 
stumbled  the  form  of  his  brother.  It  was  not  one  of  Wil- 
liam's good  days,  and  he  had  already  lost  sobriety. 


122  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  Here  we  are  again !  "  he  said.  "  Why  —  the  devil ! 
Where's  your  war-paint?  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
wear  your  cocked  hat  and  the  wine  label,  you  old 
blighter !  " 

Mr.  Ambrose  rolled  his  eyes  for  help,  and  the  Town  Ser- 
geant hastened  to  his  side.  Then  Emma's  turke}'  feather 
was  seen  pushing  its  way  through  the  spectators.  The 
people  surged  up  and  Billy  was  swallowed.  He  exploded 
with  curses  on  the  jetty,  and  coarse  laughter  faintly 
reached  his  brother's  ears. 

Mr.  Ambrose  sighed  and  kept  silent  for  some  time.  The 
incident  was  tactfully  ignored  by  his  friends,  and  soon 
four  boatloads  from  Colchester  and  Brightlingsea  came 
alongside  the  Peewit.  With  the  three  crowns  of  Col- 
chester fluttering  at  her  masthead  and  the  steamer  of  the 
river  police  leading  the  way,  she  set  out,  dodged  the  Engi- 
neers, still  toiling  on  their  pontoons,  rounded  the  point 
and  made  to  sea,  that  she  might  patrol  the  boundaries  of 
the  Fishery.  Black  and  grim,  a  fleet  of  mine-sweepers 
slipped  out  to  the  Channel  before  her,  and  the  Peewit 
dipped  her  flag  to  the  Admiral's  yacht  that  went  with 
them.  His  white  ensign  nodded  acknowledgment,  and  he 
and  his  sombre  squadron  were  soon  hull  down. 

Aboard,  the  crew  wore  their  best  jerseys,  and  the  skip- 
per was  resplendent.  Even  Mr.  Mushet,  in  the  engine- 
room,  had  donned  a  clean  suit  of  russet  dungarees,  and 
Tom  Darcy  looked  striking  with  his  golden  ear-rings  and 
a  flame-coloured  scarf  about  his  neck.  Mr.  Saul  Rebow, 
master  of  the  Peewit,  was  summoned  to  the  Mayor  pres- 
ently. He  descended  from  his  perch  and  Darcy  took 
his  place  at  the  helm.  "  Old  Tell-yer-fer-why "  wore 
snow-white  ducks,  a  blue  jersey  with  Peewit  in  red  letters 
upon  his  breast,  and  a  cap  of  dark  cloth  with  a  gold  band 
upon  his  head.  He  made  much  of  the  Mayor ;  indeed  they 
patronised  each  other.  Each  was  alive  to  the  dignity  of 
his  possession,  and  each  regarded  their  meeting  as  an  event 
not  devoid  of  historical  interest. 


OPENING  THE  FISHERY  123 

"  I've  seen  twenty-two  Colchester  mayors  go  through 
the  Opening,"  said  Mr.  Rebow,  "  and  I  may  tell  you  some 
shine  at  it  and  some  don't." 

"  Hush !  "  murmured  Mr.  Ambrose ;  "  there  are  ex- 
mayors  present  to-day." 

"  I  know  it ;  I've  got  my  weather-eye  lifting,"  answered 
the  captain.  "  The  mayors  come  and  the  mayors  go,  but 
me  and  my  crew  and  my  ship  go  on.  I  remember  you  in 
the  past  and  I'll  give  you  a  tip,  Mr.  Mayor,  if  you're  not 
above  taking  it.  The  human  voice  have  to  be  lifted  a  lot 
above  land  pitch  when  you're  on  sea ;  and  if  you  want  the 
old  words  to  roll  out  proper,  you'll  have  to  bellow  a  bit." 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose.  "  But  I  had  always 
understood  that  water  was  a  good  conductor  of  sound. 
In  this  case,  too,  we  shall  be  grouped  fairly  close  together, 
as  the  ceremony  will  take  place  on  the  barge," 

The  barge,  indeed,  was  already  in  sight  —  a  spacious 
craft  at  rest  in  the  Pyefleet  creek,  whither  the  steamer  now 
turned  her  way.  She  was  soon  at  anchor  alongside  and 
her  passengers  assembled  themselves  on  the  anchored  ves- 
sel, while  Mr.  Ambrose  and  the  protagonists  of  the  rite 
retired  into  the  Peewifs  cabin  to  robe. 

The  Native  was  the  name  of  the  beamy  barge,  and  she 
had  been  made  ready  for  the  occasion.  Forward  stood  a 
table  covered  with  red  cloth,  and  from  it  there  ran  amid- 
ships two  long  forms  for  those  about  to  assist  at  the  cere- 
mony. The  company  arrived  and  sat  in  two  rows  upon 
the  forms.  It  was  now  noon,  with  the  sun  over  the  fore- 
yard-arm.  The  river  shone,  and  the  tide,  amaking,  began 
slowly  to  swallow  the  mud  banks  round  about.  Water- 
fowl flew  overhead  —  crying  seagulls,  flitting  sand-snipe, 
wailing  curlew  and  a  string  of  barnacle  geese,  that  ad- 
vanced in  line  landward  before  the  tide.  The  hot  air  quiv- 
ered over  the  flats,  where,  outlined  dimly  against  the  flash 
of  many  waters,  there  faded  away  northerly  and  easterly 
the  long-shore  levels.  Here  low-lying  earth  was  thronged 
by  the  rounded  heads  of  great,  innumerable  elms.     The 


lU  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

mainland  revealed  mile  upon  mile  of  their  wooded  bosses, 
dim  through  the  summer  haze,  and  Mersea  Island  was  also 
fledged  with  fine  timber,  towering  amid  her  flat  meadows 
and  fallow  lands.  In  endless  ranks  the  trees  dwindled 
upon  the  blue  of  distance,  and  among  them  rose  little  tow- 
ers and  steeples,  single  manor  houses  or  farms,  and  the 
clustered  roofs  of  hamlet  and  thorpe. 

Clad  in  robes  of  black  and  gold,  with  his  insignia  of 
office  upon  a  scarlet  ribbon,  and  a  cocked  hat  on  his  head, 
Mr.  Ambrose  now  appeared.  He  was  preceded  by  the 
Town  Sergeant.  The  Sergeant,  a  fine  figure  of  a  man, 
also  wore  black  and  gold  with  a  three-cornered  hat.  His 
noble  calves  bulged  in  white  stockings.  He  had  a  clean- 
shaved  Irish  face  and  a  mobile  mouth,  full  of  laughter. 

"  Oyez !  Oyez  ! !  Oyez  ! ! !  "  he  bellowed,  in  a  voice  big 
enough  to  satisfy  Mr.  Rebow ;  and  thus  the  ceremonial 
began. 

First  came  the  Mayor,  with  scroll  in  hand,  and  sonorous, 
but  monotonous,  inflection. 

"  '  I  pray  all  of  you  here  present  to  keep  silence  while 
the  Town  Clerk  do  read,  according  to  ancient  custom,  the 
Proclamation  declaring  the  Fishery  open.'  " 

And  then  was  told,  in  good  set  terms,  how  "  the  Several 
Fishery  of  the  River  Colne  and  waters  thereof  hath  from 
time  beyond  which  memory  runneth  not  to  the  contrary, 
belonged  and  appertained  to  the  Corporation  of  the  Bor- 
ough of  Colchester  by  whatsoever  designation  called  or 
known."  The  waters  were  at  present  shut  in  accord  with 
ancient  usage;  but  from  this  day  forward  they  would  be 
opened,  "  and  continue  open  until  such  day  as  shall  be 
seemed  proper  and  appropriate  for  the  closing  thereof." 

The  Town  Clerk  farther  read  the  terms  of  the  procla- 
mation made  in  Colne  Water  during  the  year  1256.  They 
told  how  former  monarchs,  "  progenitors  of  our  very  ex- 
cellent Lord  King,  who  now  is,"  have  granted  to  the 
Burgesses  of  Colchester  various  privileges  including  the 
fishery  of  the  North  Bridge  as  far  as  Westnesse  on  either 


OPENING  THE  FISHERY  125 

side ;  and  the  presents  warn  that  "  no  man  nor  other  per- 
son may  place  piles,  weirs  nor  other  works  of  hand  nearer 
to  our  said  water  than  is  necessary  for  the  maintenance  of 
their  properties.  Nor  that  any  dredgers  of  oysters  may 
dredge  broods  at  any  time,  except  in  the  time  limited, 
under  pain  of  forfeiture  and  grievous  amerciaments." 

Now  came  the  moment  for  the  toast,  and  when  the  Town 
Sergeant  had  cried  with  a  great  voice :  "  God  save  the 
King,  the  Mayor  and  this  Corporation !  "  all  were  read3\ 

"  Three  cheers  for  His  Majesty,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose. 
Then  rose  the  greeting,  and  half  a  hundred  flashes  to  the 
sunlight,  for  in  every  man's  right  hand  was  a  wine-glass 
of  gin,  and  in  his  left  a  little  cake  of  ^ngerbread.  This 
was  the  immemorial  fare  of  the  occasion  —  a  legacy  from 
old  Flanders,  when  traffic  and  inter-trading  ^  between  the 
Netherlands,  Flanders  and  Essex  were  closer  than  to-day. 
Still,  however,  its  evidences  exist  beyond  the  gin  and 
gingerbread,  for  the  warranty  of  Flemish  and  Dutch  for- 
bears is  manifest  upon  our  eastern  coastline,  where  old 
Dutch  and  Low  country  names  are  numerous. 

A  telegram  was  now  despatched  to  the  Monarch,  and  the 
pinnace  of  the  river  police  flashed  away  with  it  to  Bright- 
lingsea. 

A  minor  ceremony  remained,  and  when  Mr.  Ambrose 
had  doffed  his  fur  and  gilt,  the  party  returning  to  the 
Peewit  crowded  her  bulwarks  while  she  went  slowly  ahead 
and  watched  the  throwing  of  the  first  dredges  for  the  year. 
Into  the  tide  splashed  a  couple  of  nets,  one  dropped  by  the 
Mayor,  and  the  other  by  the  Chairman  of  the  Fishery ; 
and  presently  Tom  Darcy  and  the  skipper  himself  hauled 
at  the  ropes  and  brought  the  dredges  inboard. 

The  oysters  were  of  a  uniform  leaden  hue  touched  with 
warm  umber,  and  many,  making  growth,  had  thrust  out  a 
new  fringe  of  shell  with  lustre  as  yet  unstained.  A  noble 
"  native  "  was  selected  for  the  Mayor,  and  opened  by  Mr. 

1  Sir  Walter  Scott  makes  menti(  r  of  this  small  merchandise  con- 
veyed by  Dutch  and  Flemish  sailors. 


126  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

Rebow  with  his  cultack.  Enthroned  on  its  bed  of  pearl 
the  silver-grey  oyster  sat.  Six  summers  had  passed  over 
him  and  brought  him  to  splendour.  Mr.  Ambrose,  per- 
haps the  only  man  on  the  boat  who  smiled  not,  took  the 
shell  in  his  hand,  covered  the  shell-hinge  with  his  thumb, 
that  no  scrap  of  London  mud  might  follow  the  oyster  to 
its  tomb,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  A  moment  of  suction 
and  the  shining  shell  was  bare. 

"  A  real  '  Whitstable  Royal,' "  said  the  Chairman. 
"  One  only  regrets  he  will  never  appreciate  his  pleasing 
fate,  or  know  that  this  dramatic  and  honourable  end  was 
reserved  for  him." 

Far  off  on  the  flats  a  solitary  building  rose,  and  having 
inspected  other  reaches  of  the  Fishery  and  found  the  con- 
tents of  the  trawls  full  of  promise,  for  harvest  was  abun- 
dant, the  steamer  turned  to  distant  Peewit  Island,  and 
many  hungry  burghers  began  to  reflect  on  luncheon. 

Hither  by  the  heron-haunted  mud  flats  they  came. 

The  packing  sheds  were  transformed  into  bowers  of  gay 
bunting  above  long  tables,  where  a  thousand  open  oysters 
lay  garnished  with  lemons,  flanked  by  brown  bread  and 
butter,  supported  by  a  regiment  of  bottles.  Upon  the 
island  were  ranged  the  pares,  or  pits,  that  the  high  tide 
flooded.  Round  them  grew  the  ubiquitous  sea  lavender, 
with  sea  asters,  breaking  their  flower-buds,  sea  purslane 
and  other  weeds  of  the  land.  Seeding  grasses  waved,  and 
rush  and  sedge  dipped  to  the  mud  banks,  where  the  glass- 
worts  began  to  flush  with  autumn  crimson.  Lording  it 
above  the  ridges,  a  Thames  barge  or  two  went  up  on  the 
tide  to  Hythe,  and  overhead  the  herons  wheeled  and  cried, 
"  Frank !  Frank ! "  or  sat  humped  on  their  fishing 
grounds  amid  the  pools  and  backwaters.  The  tang  of  the 
mud  was  fresh  and  sweet.  It  set  an  edge  on  appetite,  and 
the  August  sun  had  awakened  hearty  thirst. 

Speech-making,  cigars  and  song  coi  eluded  the  luncheon 
on  Peewit  Island.  The  cigars  were  of  the  best,  the 
speeches  plain  and  to  the  point.     War  had  struck  at  the 


OPENING  THE  FISHERY  127 

roots  of  their  trade,  for  highly-priced  natives  cannot  be 
given  away,  and  the  company's  huge  markets  in  Belgium, 
Germany,  Russia  and  France  were  closed. 

Mr.  Ambrose  explained  the  position. 

"  Not  even  our  Allies  may  claim  their  customary  thou- 
sands," said  he,  "  for  oysters  are  a  valuable  foodstuff  and 
must  not  be  exported  until  war  is  at  an  end.  We  have, 
however,  voted  ten  thousand  of  the  finest  oysters  in  the 
Colne  at  this  moment  to  our  Red  Cross  for  the  hospitals ; 
and  as  for  the  usual  three  million  for  this  3'ear's  market, 
I  feel  very  sure  that  in  the  expert  hands  of  our  Manager 
and  staff,  time  and  opportunity  will  find  a  way." 

The  Chairman  also  made  a  speech,  illustrated  v,'ith  hope 
and  humour.  He  pinned  his  faith  to  the  unsurpassable 
qualities  of  Colne  natives. 

"  Still  they  hold  pride  of  place  in  the  oyster  world,"  he 
assured  his  company ;  "  and  though  fashion  may  change 
and  now  the  American  '  Blue  Point  '  reign,  and  now  that 
choice  fish  from  County  Clare,  still  our  true-born  native  is 
the  best  oyster  of  them  all,  and  retains  that  supreme  lord- 
ship he  won  of  old,  when  paleolithic  man  first  consumed 
him  in  doubt  and  digested  him  with  joy.  For  older  than 
humanity  is  the  oyster,  gentlemen,  and  he  lived  and  throve 
for  centuries  upon  the  London  clay  beds,  before  he  was 
discovered  by  conscious  intelligence  and  his  fame  shouted 
round  the  prehistoric  lodges." 

A  song  —  a  veritable  oyster  classic  —  followed  the 
speech-making.  It  was  the  composition  of  a  famous  Col- 
chester citizen,  humourist  and  man  of  letters  —  one  de- 
scended from  an  Ypres  family,  whose  refugee  forefathers 
had  come  to  England  in  Elizabethan  days. 

The  Fisheries'  Manager  sang  this  humorous  ditty  with 
due  effect,  and  the  jest  won  its  measure  of  applause. 

"  Though  men  may  nidely  drag  him  from  his  shell 
And  probe  and  prod  and  pepper  him  as  well 
And  sour  his  mild  existence  —  yet,  what  then? 
To  live  for  some  brief  space  in  mouths  of  men 


128  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

Is  fame,  and  this  fulfils  the  Oyster's  mission; 

To  please  and  satisfy  is  his  ambition; 

And  though  not  proud,  his  gentle  heart  will  flutter 

To  know  he's  worthy  of  his  bread  and  butter!" 

The  sun  was  westering  and  the  tide  had  turned  before 
the  Peeicit  set  off  for  home  again.  Peter  Mistley  picked  a 
big  bunch  of  sea  lavender  for  Aveline  before  he  left  the 
island,  and  not  a  few  men  decorated  their  buttonholes  with 
sprigs  of  it.  ■ 

At  "  The  King's  Head  "  the  Mayor  and  burgesses  drank 
tea.  It  is  a  long,  low-built  building  of  two  storeys,  with 
a  roof  of  red  tiles  and  a  verandah  before  its  face.  In  the 
midst  a  bubble  of  glass  bulges  upon  the  street,  and  here 
lies  the  public  bar  —  a  frank  and  conspicuous  place  of  en- 
tertainment, where  every  man  may  spy  on  his  neighbour's 
refreshment. 

During  the  meal  a  telegram  arrived  from  the  King,  in 
response  to  that  despatched  from  sea  during  the  morning. 
He  was  well  pleased  to  learn  that  his  subjects  prospered, 
thanked  them  for  their  loyal  greeting,  and  wished  all  good 
to  the  Fishery. 

One  visitor  at  least  echoed  that  wish  from  his  heart,  for 
Peter  Mistley  found  himself  impressed  and  inspired  by  his 
day  with  wise  and  kindly  fellow-men. 

They  had  played  their  parts  as  their  forefathers  played 
them,  and  in  so  doing  worthily  transmitted  a  tradition  that 
extended  far  beyond  Colne  and  her  ceremonial  rites.  For 
such  survivals,  he  thought,  seemed  to  link  all  England  with 
the  rugged,  spacious  times  of  the  past,  with  that  Merrie 
England  of  the  Golden  Age,  when  men  were  building  by 
glorious  adventure  a  coming  greatness  none  could  guess, 
and  establishing  those  steadfast  foundations  of  national 
character  and  national  courage  on  which,  four-square, 
there  stood  the  fighting  Empire  of  his  day.  From  the 
sleepy  estuary  of  Colne,  with  its  stately  elms  and  corn 
whitening  for  the  sickle,  it  seemed  a  remote  flight  to  battle- 
fields and  the  red  wrath  of  war ;  yet  Peter  knew  that  thou- 


OPENING  THE  FISHERY  129 

sands  nurtured  in  these  scenes  were  honouring  their 
motherland  j^onder ;  and  few  of  the  men  who  had  partici- 
pated in  this  old  custom,  but  had  a  son,  or  brother  at  the 
far-flung  front.  To-day  they  hid  their  hearts  and  kept 
the  shadow  out  of  their  eyes ;  they  performed  their  tasks 
in  the  trivial  play  of  the  hour  as  though  it  were  a  vital 
matter,  not  to  be  maimed  by  an  omission,  or  shortened  by 
a  word. 

"  For  of  such  is  our  kingdom,"  thought  the  artist. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

COMEDY 

MiSTLEY  and  his  colleague  worked  together  in  the  studio 
on  the  morning  after  their  visit  to  Colne. 

"  Look  at  this,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  and  tell  me  if  you  ever 
saw  anything  quite  so  ridiculous.  It's  the  military  gar- 
den for  Sir  David  Appleyard,  in  Shropshire.  Salients 
and  redoubts.  He  wants  clumps  of  everything  to  look 
like  piles  of  shells !  And  if  we  could  perform  feats  of 
topiary  and  put  shrubs  in  the  shape  of  cannon  in  these 
embrasures,  he'd  bless  us.  He  says  the  world  is  really  a 
gigantic  fortress.  He  sees  military  design  everywhere. 
It's  his  argument  that  God  Almighty  planned  the  races  of 
mankind  to  make  war  and  slaughter  each  other." 

"  Miserable  old  fool,"  said  Peter. 

"  That's  the  rum  thing:  he  isn't.  Quite  intelligent  out- 
side soldiering.  He  believes  in  God  with  a  fierce  belief, 
and  won't  hear  a  word  against  faith." 

"  The  greatest  argument  against  God  is  man,"  grunted 
Mistley;  "and  the  crushing  objection  to  design,  that 
they're  always  bleating  about,  is  the  world.  There's 
chance  and  hazard  and  accident  in  every  aspect  of  the 
ramshackle  pill." 

"  You  want  a  pill  yourself,"  said  the  other.  "  Any- 
way, if  you'd  been  called  to  make  it,  we  should  have  had  — 
goodness  knows  what  —  something  between  the  hanging 
gardens  of  Babylon  and  the  Tuileries,  I  suppose,  with  all 
the  seas  square  and  all  the  rivers  straight  lines  from 
source   to   mouth." 

"  And  if  you  had,"  retorted  Peter,  "  we  should  have  seen 
something  between  the  Crystal  Palace  grounds  and  the 

130 


COMEDY  131 

transformation  scene  in  a  pantomime  —  grandiose,  bla- 
tant, absurd.  Your  buttercups  would  be  as  big  as  basins 
and  your  daisies  a  foot  across.  I  can  see  your  idea  of 
flowers,  with  birds  to  match  —  tomtits  as  big  as  eagles  — 
violets  that  you  could  smell  a  mile  off ;  everything  blazing 
with  colour  and  never  a  cloud  in  the  staring,  blue  sky." 

Seabrook  laughed  at  this  picture  of  his  world. 

"  How  did  she  like  the  bunch  of  sea  lavender?  "  he  asked 
abruptly. 

But  the  other  did  not  choose  to  hear.  Seabrook's 
efforts  at  a  little  mild  chaff  on  the  subject  of  Aveline  were 
always  ignored  by  him. 

"  Those  mud  flats  were  very  splendid  —  stately  and 
simple,  with  their  flower  masses  used  as  they  should  be 
used,"  said  Mistley. 

"  Nature  ought  to  feel  flattered." 

"  The  whole  thing  was  fine  —  the  ceremony  and  the 
people." 

"  You're  not  a  misanthrope  after  all." 

"  Ambrose  has  just  the  mind  for  a  thing  like  that.  He 
carried  it  off  all  right." 

"  I  thought  he  was  grand,"  declared  Seabrook.  "  I  be- 
lieve Mrs.  Ambrose  coached  him  a  bit.  She  has  the  dra- 
matic instinct." 

"  A  rotten  instinct,  too.  If  Ambrose  had  tried  to  be 
dramatic  he'd  have  made  an  ass  of  himself.  His  wife  is  a 
mass  of  imbecile  affectation,  if  that's  what  you  mean  by 
dramatic.  She's  a  humbug,  through  and  through.  You 
know  by  the  very  voice  of  her  and  the  way  she  mouths  her 
words  and  rolls  her  eyes  that  she's  not  real.  Affectation 
like  that  sickens  me.  It's  a  sort  of  emasculated  lying  all 
the  time." 

Geoffrey  Seabrook  took  this  indictment  against  the  most 
precious  thing  in  his  life  with  sublime  calm.  His  voice 
did  not  quiver.     He  uttered  his  cheery  little  laugh. 

"  It's  a  game,  really,"  he  said.  "  They  play  it  together 
—  peojDle  like  that  —  and  if  you  can't  play  the  game  your- 


132  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

self,  it  bores  you  and  seems  dull.  Theatrical  people  — 
actors  and  actresses,  I  mean  —  are  mostly  like  that. 
After  a  time  they  get  into  an  amusing  way  of  always  act- 
ing together,  even  when  they're  oif  the  stage.  I  believe 
they  go  on  acting  when  they're  all  alone.  It's  the  mimetic 
temperament." 

"  It's  unreal,  and  ruins  sincerity  and  creates  an  utterly 
false  scale  of  values." 

"  I  dare  say  it  does.  But  where  is  the  scale  of  values 
that  isn't  false?  Children  love  to  pretend,  and  we  are 
told  that  the  childlike  mind  is  beautiful." 

"  Posing  and  insincerity  aren't  beautiful.  That 
woman's  a  poser,  always  looking  out  of  the  corner  of  her 
eyes  to  see  the  effect  —  always  wanting  new  men  at  her 
chariot  wheels." 

"  What  woman  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Ambrose.  She's  not  an  artist,  really ;  she's  not 
capable  of  feeling  in  any  fine  sense." 

Seabrook  made  no  effort  to  play  knight  to  the  dis- 
tressed damsel.  If  possible  his  caution  erred  in  the  ex- 
treme of  his  indifference.  But  Peter  Mistley,  of  course, 
suspected  nothing. 

"  No  doubt  you're  right,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  I  don't 
know  much  about  women." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do,"  answered  the  other ;  "  you  know  a 
great  deal  more  about  them  than  I  do,  for  that  matter. 
They  interest  you  more,  and  you  know  how  to  please  them, 
which  is  more  than  I  do." 

"  Don't  say  that.  Now  you're  being  a  humbug  your- 
self. You  know  how  to  please  one,  anyway;  and  I  sup- 
pose nobody  wants  to  please  more  than  one  —  at  a  time." 

And  then,  incited  thereto,  perhaps,  by  his  senior's  blis- 
tering opinion  of  Helena,  Seabrook  determined  to  speak  of 
Aveline.  He  had  often  studied  her  in  the  studio,  and  she 
had  been  gracious  to  him,  as  she  was  gracious  to  every- 
body. Mistley  did  not  answer  his  last  remark,  and  now 
he  spoke  again. 


COMEDY  133 

"  All  women  act  more  than  men.  To  see  a  little  bit 
of  the  truth  of  them,  jou  must  be  onlooker  and  hear  them 
talking  to  other  people.  It's  like  watching  a  game  of 
cards.  If  you're  playing  a  hand  yourself,  you  can't  see 
so  much.  When  Mrs.  Brown  strolls  in  —  for  a  bit  of 
india  rubber,  or  a  pencil  or  something  —  well,  one  notices 
little  touches.  If  you're  actually  talking  to  her  you  for- 
get everything  but  her  eyes  and  mouth  and  voice;  but  if 
you're  not " 

"  What  then?  "  said  Peter. 

"  Then  you  notice  —  a  sort  of  —  a  —  sort  of  illusive- 
ness  —  a  sort  of  watchfulness.  She's  on  guard  all  the 
time,  really." 

"  All  women  are." 

"  Not  necessarily  —  not  with  friends  and  people  they 
know  are  harmless.  Another  thing :  she's  not  so  happy  as 
she  pretends  to  be." 

Peter  Mistley  was  profoundly  Interested,  and  endeav- 
oured to  hide  the  fact. 

"  She's  hard  up  and  anxious." 

"  I  don't  think  being  hard  up  would  make  her  particu- 
larly anxious.  Has  she  ever  told  you  anything  about  her 
married  life?  " 

"  I  never  asked." 

"  Naturally ;  but  that  wouldn't  prevent  her  telling  you 
if  she  wanted  you  to  know." 

Mistley  did  not  answer,  and  Seabrook  began  to  praise 
Aveline. 

"  Don't  misunderstand  me,  Peter.  I  don't  mean  she's 
sly,  or  anything  like  that.  She  has  a  nature  that  I  should 
think  craved  for  sympathy  and  understanding.  She's  an 
artist,  and  thundering  clever,  of  course.  I'm  merely  say- 
ing she's  got  something  on  her  mind." 

Mistley  thawed  a  trifle. 

"  No  doubt  she  can  paint.  And  as  to  being  in  need  of 
sympathy  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  I  doubt  it.  She's 
very  independent." 


134  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  If  she's  as  hard  up  as  you  say,  she  can't  be  inde- 
pendent." 

Seabrook  had  now  reached  the  stage  when  he  hoped  to 
win  at  least  a  confession  of  interest  from  Peter;  but  what 
the  latter  might  have  said  next,  he  never  did  say,  for  they 
were  interrupted. 

There  came  Mr.  Ambrose. 

"  Well,  young  men,  I  hope  you  enjoyed  yourselves,"  he 
began,  and  both  declared  they  had  done  so.  Seabrook 
ventured  to  dwell  on  the  dignity  and  distinction  of  the 
ceremony  as  conducted  by  the  Mayor  himself ;  while  Mist- 
ley  hinted  at  how  the  occasion  had  struck  him  as  a  whole, 
in  words  that  echoed  in  his  thoughts  of  the  previous  day. 
Mr.  Ambrose  knew  what  the  younger  man  would  say ;  but 
what  Mistley  might  think  he  did  not  know.  He  seldom 
wasted  time  in  business  hours,  but  now  he  talked  for  some 
while,  his  conversation  being  chiefly  devoted  to  repeating 
Mistley's  terse  sentiments  in  his  own  more  elaborated 
sentences.  He  was,  however,  very  gracious  to  Geoffrey 
Seabrook,  also.  Indeed,  he  had  a  favour  to  ask  in  that 
quarter. 

"  I  am  off  to  Scotland  next  week  for  a  few  days,  and  the 
visit  may  extend  to  a  fortnight,  if  not  more,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  not  wholly  unconnected  with  business ;  indeed,  at  a  time 
like  this  I  should  not  allow  myself  to  go  solely  for  pleas- 
ure. My  direction  will  be  left  at  the  office,  and  I  may  have 
occasion  to  write  to  you,  Mistley,  about  possible  work 
near  Glasgow.  Mrs.  Ambrose  does  not  accompany  me, 
and  I  am  going  to  ask  you,  Seabrook,  if  she  should  need 
your  kindly  aid  in  any  direction  not  to  deny  it  to  her." 

"  Of  course,  sir  —  anything  I  can  do." 

"  We  put  upon  you ;  indeed  we  trade  upon  your  extraor- 
dinary generosity.     I  have  told  her  so,"  said  Mr.  Ambrose. 

"  Far  from  it  —  a  privilege  —  there's  so  very  little  one 
can  do,"  declared  Seabrook. 

"  My  wife  is  so  eager  and  willing  to  sacrifice  her  time 
for  the  good  of  others  that  occasionally  —  I  speak  in  con- 


COMEDY  135 

fidence  —  she  forgets  that  we  have  not  all  so  much  leisure 
as  she  herself  enjoys.  Quite  a  tyrant  —  I  speak  play- 
fully, of  course.  But  her  deep  feeling  on  the  subject  of 
the  war  and  her  resolution  to  work  night  and  day  for  it, 
and  make  others  do  the  same,  is  worthy  of  all  praise.  In 
fact,"  summed  up  Mr.  Ambrose,  "  no  man  knows  how 
good  a  woman  can  be  unless  he  be  brought  into  close  con- 
tact with  such  a  woman.  That  is  my  privilege,  and  I  hope 
in  course  of  time  you  young  men  will  enjoy  similar  priv- 
ileges." 

He  continued  to  discourse  benevolently  for  a  while,  then 
bade  them  good-bye  until  his  return,  and  went  to  the  office. 

"  I  hope  she  doesn't  want  to  dance  me  about,"  murmured 
Geoffrey.  "  I  rather  hoped  to  get  off  for  a  few  days 
myself ;  but  I  suppose  I  can't  go  now  till  Mr.  Ambrose 
comes  back." 

"  We're  all  the  same  —  insincere  humbugs,  every  one  of 
us,"  growled  Peter  Mistley.  "  You  tell  him  to  his  face 
you'll  be  proud  to  do  anything  for  her,  and  then,  behind 
his  back,  swear  at  the  necessity." 

Which  was  just  the  impression  that  Mr.  Seabrook  de- 
sired to  convey. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ON    THE    STOUR 

Sensitiveness  belongs  to  temperament,  and  culture  leaves 
it  where  nature  did.  Many  highly  educated  men  and 
women  utterly  lack  sensitiveness,  while  a  day  labourer  may 
possess  it.  But  there  is  no  closer  bond,  and  no  parity  of 
tastes  and  enthusiasms  can  so  well  draw  people  together; 
since  taste  is  acquired  and  sensitiveness  innate.  Thus 
the  very  fastidious  niceness  and  acuteness  of  feeling  — 
that  thin-skinned  susceptibility,  which  may  keep  lovers 
apart  during  the  earlier  stages  of  a  romance  —  at  the  end 
crushes  them  together  in  a  sympathy  that  no  lesser  force 
can  create.  Such  a  man  cries  to  the  darkness  until  he 
finds  the  echo  of  his  heart  returning  to  him  from  the 
woman ;  and  then  they  melt  together. 

Without  being  vain,  Peter  regarded  himself  as  one  who 
pursued  existence  with  dignity  and  self-respect,  and  kept 
the  light  burning  to  the  best  of  his  powers.  Now  the  case 
was  altered,  for  while  love  soon  reaches  to  the  altitude  of 
sublimation  and  exaggeration  where  the  loved  object  is 
concerned,  it  goes,  if  anything,  to  the  opposite  extreme  in 
the  lover's  heart,  throws  a  light  of  remorseless  charity  into 
his  own  soul,  infallibly  shows  him  things  about  himself  that 
he  never  saw  before,  and  tinges  his  faintest  faults  with  a 
colour  that  reveals  what  was  before  invisible,;  As  the 
transparent  atom  is  tinctured,  that  we  may  observe  it 
under  the  microscopic  lens,  so  love  tints  the  least  unsus- 
pected traits  in  a  sensitive  spirit,  and  accentuates  errors 
of  character  already  known.  Above  all,  it  quickens  the 
instinct  for  defence,  and  teaches  the  lover  to  conceal  his 
imperfections  from  the  loved  one  —  especially  those  which 

136 


ON  THE  STOUR  137 

her  opinions  and  taste  lead  him  to  suspect  would  be  least 
pleasing. 

A  sense  of  vagueness  and  reality  slipping  away  accom- 
panied Mistley's  new  illumination.  By  nature  he  was 
neither  joyous  nor  gloomy,  but  of  resolute  mind  —  a  faith- 
ful lover  in  the  cool  courts  of  his  Art ;  but  now  things  once 
bright  had  faded.  Faded  was  the  word  he  used  to  himself. 
Reality  bored  him ;  regular  habits  irritated  him  and  he 
broke  them,  as  belonging  to  middle  age.  He  felt  both 
younger  and  older.  Art  was  no  longer  his  life,  but  the 
work  of  his  life.  He  worked  as  well  as  ever  and  did  not 
fail  of  imagination  or  craft ;  but  he  approached  his  busi- 
ness from  a  new  point  of  view  that  changed  its  aspect 
temporally.  This  location  was  so  complete  that  it 
brought  a  measure  of  dismay.  Yet  how  infinitely  splendid 
was  the  usurper!  Love  hovered  about  him  like  an  aura 
and  made  all  outside  himself  fairer  than  of  old.  He  found 
himself  more  patient  with  other  people,  more  sympathetic, 
inspired  to  look  under  the  surface  of  his  neighbours,  dis- 
posed to  feel  more  interest  in  the  sorrows  and  joys  of  his 
narrow  world. 

For  himself,  however,  there  was  no  sympathy,  but  rather 
impatience  and  dissatisfaction.  His  life  was  like  a  gar- 
ment that  had  seemed  until  now  comfortable  enough.  But 
suddenly  it  became  too  small,  too  tight,  shabby,  suffocat- 
ing —  no  attire  for  a  man.  To  others,  surely,  it  must 
also  look  too  small,  and  therefore  ridiculous,  even  con- 
temptible. 

As  for  the  woman,  she  knew  that  he  must  soon  ask  her 
to  marry  him  and  waited  for  him  to  do  so.  Her  emotions 
—  far  more  complex  than  Mistley's,  because  they  sprang 
from  a  far  more  complex  situation  —  can  only  be  anal^'sed 
at  a  later  opportunity.  For  the  moment  she  knew  very 
well  that  she  loved  him,  and  could  not  trust  herself  to  think 
how  much.  Her  favourite  British  painter  was  Constable, 
and  Peter  asked  her  to  go  for  a  long  drive  with  him  on  a 
Sunday  and  visit  the  Stour  valley  and  scenes  of  the  artist's 


138  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

activity.  The  enterprise  had  been  long  planned,  and 
knowing  very  well  what  awaited  her,  Aveline  consented  to 
go. 

He  arrived  at  ten  o'clock  in  a  comfortable  carriage  with 
two  horses,  and  Aveline  stood  on  the  step  of  Mrs.  Hemp- 
son's  home  awaiting  him.  They  drove  away  together 
through  hedges  draped  with  the  wild  hop,  growing  daily 
brighter  as  the  fruit  of  blackberry,  rose,  and  thorn  ripened 
in  scarlet  and  purple  lustre  by  the  way. 

"  We're  going  to  Dedham,"  said  Peter.  "  The  river's 
fine  there,  and  there's  one  of  the  finest  churches  in  Essex 
—  built,  I  suppose,  when  the  place  w^as  more  important 
than  now." 

The  drive  seemed  short  enough  to  them  both,  and  their 
talk  was,  for  the  most  part,  of  art. 

"  It's  a  perfect  Constable  day,  heavy  with  coming  rain. 
I'm  glad  you're  going  to  see  Stour  Vale  in  the  grey." 

She  looked  at  the  sky. 

"  But  not  too  grey  —  and  don't  say  it's  going  to  rain." 

"  Not  till  evening,  I  expect." 

They  came  down  the  hill  to  Dedham  at  last,  after  slow 
trotting  through  many  lanes.  There  they  stopped  at  an 
inn,  ordered  luncheon,  and  walked  to  the  river.  It  wound 
away,  silent  and  shining,  in  long  reaches,  with  expanse  of 
flat  meadowland  on  the  eastern  bank  and  willow  trees  to 
the  west.  At  streamside  grew  great  docks,  and  giant  but- 
ter burr,  whose  flower  was  gone,  but  whose  leaf  patines 
lay  heavy  at  the  water's  edge  under  scrub  of  pollarded 
alder.  The  south  wind  made  a  sighing  in  the  grey  willows 
and  from  time  to  time  a  lance-shaped  leaf  flashed  down 
untimely  to  the  water.  In  the  meadows  stood  red  and 
white  kine,  grazing.  Some  beasts  roamed  together  to  a 
fresh  pasture;  others  lay  chewing  the  cud,  and  Stour's 
slow  stream  made  a  mirror  for  them  when  they  came  to 
some  shallow  to  drink.  Here  and  there  the  wind  found  the 
face  of  the  water  and  swept  it  into  rough  silver.  They 
followed  it   a   mile,   only   to   see  fresh   reaches   extending 


ON  THE  STOUR  139 

onward  to  the  sea.  A  low,  sad-coloured  sky  hung  over 
all. 

"  We'll  turn  now  and  go  up  stream,  past  the  mill  above 
the  bridge,"  said  Mistley.  "  The  Stour  is  the  northern 
boundary  of  the  Tendring  Hundred.  It  was  made  boat- 
able  up  to  Sudbury  in  Queen  Anne's  time,  I  think ;  and 
then  Manning-tree,  a  hamlet  of  Mistley,  became  famous 
for  its  fish  trade." 

"  Is  there  a  place  called  INIistley?  " 

"  Rather  —  a  very  ancient  spot.  The  word  is  the 
Saxon  '  Mircel,'  meaning  '  herb  Basil,'  and  '  ley  '  a  pasture 
—  at  least,  so  some  declare.  It's  Mitteslea  in  Domesday. 
Mistley  Hall  has  gone  now,  but  there  were  great  doings 
there  in  early  Georgian  days,  when  one  Richard  Rigby  had 
it.  Garrick  and  other  actors  and  actresses  used  to  visit 
there.  Miss  Reay  must  have  been  a  great  favourite  of 
Rigby's,  for  he  built  her  a  '  tea-room  '  in  the  Tower  at 
Walton-on-the-Naze.  That's  where  the  parson.  Hack- 
man,  fell  madly  in  love  with  her ;  but  she  couldn't  return 
his  passion,  and  so  at  Covent  Garden,  one  fine  night,  the 
lunatic  shot  her  dead  on  the  stage.  They  hanged  the 
reverend  gentleman  for  his  trouble.     The  fool  deserved  it." 

"  I  don't  know,"  doubted  Aveline.  "  How  can  we  say 
what  he  deserved  —  without  knowing  her?  " 

"  You've  always  got  an  excuse  for  ever^^body,"  he  said. 

They  turned  and  went  up  stream,  past  a  great  corn  mill, 
where  a  ribbon  of  Stour's  silver  was  deflected.  It  van- 
ished, then  spouted  out  again  in  a  cataract,  formed  a  wide, 
still  pool,  and  so  slid  back  to  the  river.  There  was  a  little 
lock  for  barges  also.  A  cottage  stood  here,  its  angle 
worn  raw  to  the  red  brick  by  the  tow-ropes.  Boats  miglit 
be  hired  on  the  river,  which  Peter  well  knew ;  and  taking 
one,  he  helped  Aveline  in,  then  rowed  slowly  up  stream. 
Into  still  reaches  Mistley  rowed,  and  the  moorhens  and 
dabchicks  scuttered  away  before  them  with  fleeting  trails 
of  darkness  on  the  shining  surface  of  the  stream. 

She  spoke  of  painting,  and  saw  Corot  rather  than  Con- 


140  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

stable  at  every  bend  of  the  river.  Then  he  rested  on  his 
oars,  let  the  boat  glide  into  the  bower  made  by  a  willow, 
and  asked  her  to  marry  him. 

She  knew  him  so  well  now  that  the  actual  proposition 
appeared  almost  unreal.  It  seemed  to  her  that  it  had  all 
happened  before.  She  was  positive  that,  when  he  took  the 
boat,  he  meant  to  speak  before  he  left  it ;  and  when  the 
great  willow  hove  in  sight,  she  felt  he  would  row  under  it 
and  tell  her  he  loved  her.  She  guessed  what  he  would  say ; 
and  he  did  say  nearly  what  she  expected  him  to  say.  And 
she,  loving  him  with  infinite  love,  answered  as  he  hoped  she 
would  answer,  though  he  knew  no  more  than  what  her  eyes 
told  him  of  the  things  hidden  in  her  heart.  For  she  had 
fought  her  battle  long  before,  and  found  her  love  cried 
like  a  child  for  him  and  was  great  enough  to  wed  him,  not 
great  enough  to  refuse. 

He  spoke  simply,  with  no  flowers  of  speech  ;  but  the  tone 
of  his  voice  was  all  she  cared  to  hear,  for  that  rang  more 
musically  than  any  word  he  uttered,  and  his  imploring  eyes 
would  have  won  her  without  speech  at  all  and  brought  her 
into  his  arms. 

Yet  when  he  had  asked  her,  humbly  enough,  if  she  could 
share  his  quiet  and  humdrum  life  with  him  and  let  him 
spend  the  rest  of  it  in  making  her  life  completely  happy, 
she  longed,  like  a  wild  thing  in  a  cage,  for  a  loophole.  Not 
for  her  sake,  but  for  his,  she  desired  it.  A  fleeting  resolu- 
tion to  tell  the  truth  about  herself  touched  her.  Her  lips 
even  framed  the  confession ;  but  it  died  upon  them. 

"  I  will  come  to  you,"  she  said,  "  if  you  want  me.  I  love 
you  —  oh,  how  dearly  I  love  you,  Peter  !  " 

Her  mind  flew  far  away  from  him  as  she  felt  him  swal- 
low up  her  hand  in  his  and  then  cover  it  with  kisses.  Her 
thoughts  ranged  into  the  reality  of  things  behind  her,  and 
then,  absurd  and  irrelevant  as  a  dream,  the  face  of  William 
Ambrose  rose  in  front  of  her  and  she  remembered  a  little 
of  what  he  had  said  when  last  they  met.  "  Don't  think 
being  wedded  and  being  married  are  the  same,  because  they 


ON  THE  STOUR  141 

are  not."  So  had  that  ruin  of  a  man  declared ;  and  know- 
ing marriage,  Aveline  would  have  been  thankful  to  wed 
without  it.  But  what  did  Peter  know  of  marriage,  or  mar- 
riage without  wedding,  or  wedding  without  marriage? 

He  could  only  look  at  her  speechless  for  a  time,  but  with 
a  reverence  in  his  eyes  that  made  her  heart  sick.  She 
longed  for  him  to  talk  and  chatter,  and  paint  the  future 
and  banish  the  darkness  in  her  soul.  She  yearned  that  the 
present  at  least  might  escape  the  necessities  ahead;  she 
thirsted  for  the  opening  of  heart,  the  confidences  now  vital. 
But  while  he  kept  silent,  as  one  stunned  by  the  immensity 
of  his  good  fortune,  her  quick  brains  were  occupied  with 
all  the  tissues  of  reservation  she  must  soon  be  spinning, 
the  half-truths  she  must  substitute  for  whole  truths,  the 
prevarications,  the  evasions.  Again  her  spirit  sank,  and 
the  future  seemed  to  beckon  with  unlovely  hand.  It  was 
natural  that  the  line  of  least  resistance  should  arride  her ; 
for  those  who  are  fond  of  sa3'ing  pleasant  things  to  others, 
prefer  to  say  pleasant  things  to  themselves ;  but  truth  was 
far  too  terrific  to  be  uttered  now.  She  temporised  with 
her  soul  and  promised  it  the  truth  at  a  later  period.  But 
she  knew  that  if  passage  of  time  and  falling  of  events 
combined  to  make  her  comfortable  without  truth,  then  she 
would  never  utter  it. 

They  returned,  and  the  victor  gripped  Stour  deep  to  his 
paddle  and  sent  the  skiff  flying  down  stream  again.  Then 
they  ate  together  in  a  little  room  at  the  inn.  They  left  the 
event  of  the  day  alone  for  a  time  and  pretended  to  talk  as 
they  had  talked  before  it.  They  said  the  same  sort  of 
things ;  but  each  knew  the  other  was  laughing  at  them. 
The  currency  of  speech,  that  had  been  gold  to  them,  seemed 
tinkling  brass  before  the  new  coinage  from  love's  mint 
awaiting  circulation.  After  dinner  they  went  to  look  at 
the  church,  deserted  at  that  hour,  and  there,  in  a  little 
sheltered  place  by  the  sanctuary,  he  put  his  arms  around 
her  and  kissed  her.  She  responded  tenderly  to  the  em- 
brace. 


142  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  I  never  felt  so  like  going  on  my  knees,"  she  whispered. 

"  My  heart  has  been  on  its  knees  all  day,"  he  said. 

They  drifted  apart  presently  and  she  looked  at  one  or 
two  of  the  cenotaphs  upon  the  walls.  Then  they  went  out 
again  and  soon  returned  to  the  carriage,  which  now 
awaited  them. 

"  We'll  drive  back  slowly  by  way  of  Stratford,  and  stop 
at  Stratford  Bridge,"  said  Mistley  to  their  driver  pres- 
ently. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE    DKIVE    HOME 

The  river  flowed  as  of  old,  and  many  fair  houses  stood 
beside  her  windings ;  but  the  ancient  mills  were  gone,  and 
less  attractive  buildings  had  taken  their  places  on  Stour 
bank. 

Their  talk  strayed  back  to  the  passing  hour,  and  the 
panorama  through  which  they  moved  formed  a  sort  of 
beautiful  frame  to  the  real  picture. 

"  Constable's  mill  wheels  and  weirs  are  only  immortal 
in  his  woi'k,"  said  Aveline.  "  How  he  would  have  hated 
these  ugly  things  that  have  sprung  up  instead." 

"  Beauty  won't  stand  still,"  answered  Peter.  "  Time, 
that  makes  a  thing  beautiful,  goes  on  and  defaces  what  it 
has  created.  The  new  always  triumphs,  and  the  new  is 
often  ugly  to  contemporary  eyes.  But  I  suppose,  if  we 
had  the  spirit  of  the  forerunners,  we  should  be  prophets 
for  the  new  and  see  how  beautiful  it  is.  I  believe  every- 
thing, and  every  person  has  a  beautiful  phase." 

"  That's  too  puzzling  a  theory  to  follow.  But  the  new 
can't  kill  the  spirit  of  Stour  Yale  —  its  own,  its  very  own 
peculiar  spirit  of  calm.  Even  to-day  —  such  a  stormy 
day,  Peter  —  can't  kill  it  for  me.  I  never  saw  such  a 
peaceful  river.  I'm  sure  nothing  would  ever  make  Stour 
angry,  or  dangerous.  She  couldn't  show  her  teeth,  or  get 
into  a  temper.  It's  an  unchanging  thing  —  beautiful  for 
ever,  despite  time." 

"  It's  changing  every  moment ;  but  it  links  one  up  witli 
unchanging  things,"  he  granted.  "  It's  the  eternal  change 
that  keeps  it  all  changeless,  really.  The  trees  and  the 
smooth  water,  the  grey  sky,  the  reed  rend  there,  with  its 

U3 


144  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

silky  song  and  purple  plumes  all  shining  out  again;  and 
the  old  autumn  signals  flashing  aloft  on  the  elms." 

"  The  trees  and  river  don't  change,  and  the  seasons 
tramp  on  still,"  said  Aveline ;  "  but  the  people  change,  and 
all  they  stand  for." 

"  Only  their  manners  and  customs  —  not  their  hearts." 

"  Their  very  hearts,  I  tell  you.  Their  manners  are  no 
more  than  their  clothes  —  hung  on  outside.  But  their 
hearts  are  different  —  harder,  harder.  My  heart's  harder 
than  my  mother's  ever  was :  your  heart's  harder  than  your 
father's  ever  was.  In  the  church  just  now  I  saw  a  monu- 
ment put  up  by  daughters  to  their  mother.  The  daugh- 
ters thanked  their  mother  for  the  good  that  Avas  in  them ; 
they  blessed  their  mother  for  the  virtues  they  had  won 
from  her.  That  was  the  old  English  way  girls'  hearts  beat 
once.  How  many  living  daughters  reverence  a  mother 
so?" 

"  Didn't  you  feel  like  that  to  your  mother.''  " 

"Never;  did  you?" 

"  My  mother  died  when  I  was  born,"  he  told  her. 

They  drifted  back  from  things  to  ideas,  according  to 
their  custom.  Unseen  he  had  her  hand  held  tight  in  his 
own  while  he  spoke,  and  she  often  pressed  his  fingers. 

"  All  spirits  of  nations  are  made  up  of  hardness  and 
sentiment,"  he  said,  "  and  the  ingredients  are  never  mixed 
the  same  in  any  two,  so  there's  eternal  confusion  and  mis- 
understanding between  them.  Take  ourselves  —  the  inex- 
orable, unconquerable  spirit  we  hide  under  laughter,  even 
in  the  shadow  of  death,  makes  other  nations  stand  aghast 
at  us.  Our  lack  of  imagination  bewilders  our  friends  and 
wakens  simple  hatred  in  our  enemies ;  and  yet  I  believe  it's 
that  very  lack  of  imagination  has  made  England  do  deeds 
that  beggar  imagination.  Other  people  try  to  understand 
us  and  fail.  But  we  never  try  to  understand  ourselves : 
that  would  be  too  imaginative.  We  just  go  grinding  on, 
rebuking  and  inquiring  and  grumbling  and  belittling  and 
cursing  one  another,  crying  out  to  the  world  that  we  are 


THE  DRIVE  HOME  145 

unready,  ill  governed,  lacking  control,  at  odds  among  our- 
selves ;  and  all  the  while,  under  the  criticism  and  deprecia- 
tion, proving  to  the  world  that  we  are  the  surest,  sanest, 
strongest  people  in  it." 

"  And  we've  got  imagination,  too,"  said  Aveline,  "  or  we 
shouldn't  laugh  at  the  Germans  and  answer  their  hymns 
of  hate  with  chaff.  To  me  they  seem  —  not  human  — 
more  like  penguins,  or  some  creatures  just  near  enough  to 
humanity  to  awake  ridiculous  and  horrible  images.  It's 
like  the  beings  from  Mars  in  the  War  of  the  Worlds. 
They're  outside  mankind.  But  the  ^Martians  were  so  far 
outside  as  to  be  awful,  the  Germans  are  so  near  as  to  be 
absurd." 

"  Presently  for  their  '  God  punish  England,'  we  shall  be 
saying,  *  Man  heal  Germany,'  "  foretold  Peter. 

"  Which  will  make  them  angrier  than  all  the  hate  in  the 
world." 

And  so  they  prattled  in  the  sunshine  of  their  great  ad- 
venture and  set  the  earth  right.  But  soon  they  came  back 
to  themselves. 

"  There's  a  difference  between  us,"  he  said.  "  I've  never 
loved  bef  oi'e,  but  you  have." 

"  You  can  set  your  mind  at  ease  about  that,"  she  re- 
plied. "  I  thought  I  loved  my  husband,  or  I  should  never 
have  married  him ;  but  it  wasn't  love :  I  know  that  very  well 
now." 

"  He  loved  you  though?  " 

She  hesitated. 

"  The  power  to  love  was  left  out  of  him.  That  wasn't 
his  fault.  So  many  people  can't  love  —  half  the  people 
that  marr}'  can't  love :  they  don't  know  how  to.  And  even 
when  they've  got  the  power,  it's  just  a  chance  if  the  one 
they  marry  can  develop  it.  And  the  stages  of  love  aren't 
always  the  same  on  both  sides,  Peter.  In  a  man,  interest 
may  have  just  quickened  into  hope,  while  the  woman's  in- 
terest hasn't  quickened  at  all.  Or  she  ma}'  have  run  far 
ahead,  from  interest  through  hope  into  love,  while  perhaps 


146  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

he's  only  just  beginning  dimly  to  realise  what's  happening 
to  him." 

It  began  to  rain  on  the  way  home  and  Mistley  stopped 
and  had  the  carriage  closed.  He  was  glad,  for  now  he 
could  put  his  arms  round  her  and  kiss  her.  He  talked  of 
the  honeymoon. 

"  We'll  go  abroad,"  he  said,  "  and  our  honeymoon  shall 
wait  till  after  the  war." 

"  Our  wedding  too?  " 

"  No,  no,  no  !     But  for  the  rest  —  one  hasn't  heart." 

"  Let  it  be  Rome,"  she  begged ;  but  he  shook  his 
head. 

"  I  can't  stand  Rome  —  it's  too  sad  if  you  know  how  to 
feel.  Imperium  Romanum  gone !  Nothing  left  but  a 
museum,  and  the  best  part  of  that  under  the  paw  of  the 
Unclean  Animal.  The  Pope  can  look  at  Belgium  and  Ser- 
bia and  Armenia  and  be  silent  —  for  Austria's  sake  — 
think  what  that  means  !  No,  the  thing  that  poisoned  Rome 
makes  Rome  hateful  to  me." 

"  Do  you  really  hate  anything.''  "  she  asked. 

"  A  humanist  must  hate  the  Church  of  Rome,"  he  de- 
clared. "  The  Eternal  City  is  only  a  dust-heap  for  anti- 
quaries to  crawl  on  now.  I've  studied  the  art  of  Greece 
and  Rome  there.  I've  walked  in  the  Vatican  and  seen  the 
Venus  of  Cnidus  in  her  tin  petticoat.  That's  a  type  and 
symbol  —  that  tin  petticoat.  We'll  go  to  Florence,  where 
the  Renaissance  was  born.  Florence  is  Florence  still; 
Rome  is  only  the  remains  of  a  meal  on  the  plate  of  Time  — 
broken  bones.  Florence  is  the  place  of  pictures,  anyway 
—  pictures  and  gardens." 

"  Gardens  are  pictures  when  you  make  them,"  she  said. 
"  To  make  a  garden  is  to  make  a  painting  with  living 
colours  —  to  paint  with  living  things.  And  you  can  say 
what  the  plants  will  be  doing  in  your  picture  each  month 
of  the  year.      So  your  picture  isn't  one,  but  many." 

"  I  believe  you  could  design  a  garden  that  would  make 
my  best  worthless  by  comparison." 


THE  DRIVE  HOME  147 

She  laughed,  but  thought  that,  working  together,  they 
might  make  a  beautiful  thing. 

"  Art's  all  observation  and  imagination,"  he  declared, 
"  and  some  say  that  observation  is  the  first  business  of  an 
artist;  but  observation  without  the  other  thing  is  a  train 
of  gunpowder  without  a  match.  Imagination  does  the 
vital  trick :  it  knows  what  to  keep  and  what  to  leave  out. 
Observation  doesn't  know  what  to  leave  out.  When  Mere- 
dith went  through  his  masterpieces  again,  his  imagination 
cut  out  any  amount  of  wonderful  things  that  his  observa- 
tion had  stored  up  —  a  lesson  that  for  all  artists  in  any 
medium." 

The  event  of  the  day  was  showing  ]Mist]ey  to  her  in  a 
new  light.  He  appeared  exhilarated  as  though  with  wine. 
He  took  the  lead ;  his  mind  moved  swiftly ;  his  face  shone ; 
he  laughed  and  chattered  —  rare  things  for  him  to  do. 
Yet  his  joy  made  her  ache  the  more. 

She  was  glad  when  the  journey  ended  and  she  found  her- 
self at  Mile  End  again.  He  had  subsided  before  that,  and 
she  wondered,  with  her  arms  round  him  in  a  parting  em- 
brace before  the  horses  stopped,  if  his  mood  had  sprung 
of  the  day  and  would  never  return,  or  whether  she  would 
find  him  a  new  man  henceforth,  transformed  from  anxious 
suitor  to  rapturous  lover. 

"  It  has  been  the  happiest,  happiest  day  I  ever  spent," 
said  Aveline.  "  And  the  most  fearfully  unhappy,"  her 
spirit  murmured  to  her  even  as  she  spoke. 

"  Then  what  must  it  have  been  for  me?  "  he  asked. 

Another  morning  had  dawned  before  the  woman  slept. 
She  spent  the  night  in  retracing  the  past  and  noting  where 
she  had  erred.  There  was  much  in  her  life  that  her  future 
husband  could  never  share  —  so  it  seemed  to  her.  Yet  she 
questioned  the  conclusion  and  argued  against  it.  Fear 
was  the  determining  factor,  and  she  decided  that  to  tell 
him  the  truth  now  must  surely  be  to  lose  him.  Immediately 
on  this  conviction,  her  mind  began  arguing  against  it. 
The  truth  might  lift  their  union  to  a  higher  plane  and  con- 


148  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

secrate  it  in  a  manner  that  nothing  else  could.  But  that 
depended  on  him,  and  despite  his  contempt  for  conven- 
tionality and  the  gregarious  instincts  of  self-preservation 
common  to  all  herds,  if  faced  with  her  knowledge,  he  might 
well  find  his  love  threatened.  For  he  would  inevitably  ask 
himself,  if  not  her,  why  she  had  not  told  him  sooner  —  why 
she  had  reserved  facts  so  vital  until  after  his  proposal. 

She  felt  her  whole  soul  poured  out  for  Peter  now  and 
dared  not  lose  him.  She  remembered  where  first  she  met 
Margery  Mayhew  and  understood  the  reality  of  a  situation 
that  at  the  time  appeared  theatrical  and  absurd.  Real 
love  could  never  be  absurd ;  and  yet  the  thing  she  now  de- 
termined to  do  was  absurd.  Even  her  values  —  values 
which  had  made  her  cling  in  self-defence  to  extremes  —  did 
not  justify  her,  and  she  knew  it.  But  the  temptation 
struck  at  her  weakest  spot  —  an  indifference  to  veracity. 
She  took  refuge  in  Mistley's  agnosticism  and  deluded  her- 
self into  hoping  that  because  he  championed  free  thought, 
he  might  condone  lawless  action.  She  knew  that  she  was 
a  fool  even  while  she  argued  thus. 

So,  like  a  squirrel  in  a  cage,  she  went  round  and  round 
and  got  no  more  forward.  Her  circle  of  reasoning  only 
completed  itself  again  and  again  ;  and  it  was  inevitable  that 
her  conclusion  should  be  postponement  of  all  statement 
until  she  had  wedded  Peter.  She  even  won  a  measure  of 
satisfaction  from  this  conclusion.  It  had  a  bright  side. 
With  an  inverted  logic,  only  to  be  appreciated  by  one  who 
knew  the  premises,  she  assured  herself  that,  after  all,  in  the 
worst  event,  it  was  she  and  not  Mistley  who  would  be  called 
to  suffer.  She  was  mentally  exhausted  before  reaching 
this  point  of  her  introspection;  otherwise  she  must  have 
perceived  that  in  the  light  of  his  love  for  her,  her  suffer- 
ings would  certainly  be  his.  Indeed  she  had  gone  too  far 
now.  Whatever  the  future  might  hold  in  store  for  them, 
the  truth  must  make  him  suffer.  Lifelong  concealment 
of  the  truth,  however,  if  practicable,  was  not  calculated  to 
pain  Aveline.     Henceforth  her  anxiety  would  centre  in  the 


THE  DRIVE  HOME  149 

need  for  concealment,  not  in  the  torment  of  it.  At  least 
the  man  should  know  what  love  was ;  and  since  she  most 
honestly  adored  him,  she  believed  her  genius  would  soon 
weld  them  together  in  such  fashion  that  not  even  the  stark 
raj  of  truth  itself  would  have  power  to  burn  them  apart 
again. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SAMUEL    MUSHEt's    HOLIDAY 

The  long  delayed  visit  of  Samuel  Mushet  to  his  brother 
was  paid  at  last.  Not  on  a  Bank  Holiday  did  he  cOme, 
but  on  a  late  day  of  August.  Then  he  arrived  at  Colches- 
ter with  Nancy,  his  wife.  Gregory  had  also  arranged  to 
make  holiday,  though  he  knew  the  greater  part  of  it  would 
be  spent  in  the  gardens  of  "  Colneside." 

Margery  met  her  uncle  and  aunt  at  the  station,  and  Mr. 
Mushet  greeted  them  at  the  front  gate  of  "  Fair  View 
Villa."  Everything  was  spick  and  span,  and  Nancy  ut- 
tered the  words  of  praise  that  her  brother-in-law  expected. 

"  A  treat  for  the  orderly  mind,"  she  said,  "  and  a  great 
lesson  to  Margery  to  be  brought  up  and  live  in  such  a 
home." 

"  It  will  be  hers  some  day,  if  she  behaves,"  explained  Mr. 
Mushet ;  "  that  is,  when  I'm  called  to  my  heavenly  man- 
sion." 

"  Your  heavenly  mansion  will  be  an  eye-opener,  Greg," 
said  Samuel,  who  was  on  the  best  of  terms  with  his  brother. 

"  It  will,"  promised  Gregory,  "  though  sometimes  when 
I  think  upon  it,  I'm  puzzled  to  know  how  I  shall  go  one 
better." 

"  You'll  see  it  all  from  the  heavenly  standpoint  then," 
declared  Nancy,  "  when  you're  lifted  to  eternity,  you'll 
have  a  larger  pattern  of  ideas." 

"  And  more  room,"  added  Samuel.  "  You  look  at  this 
house  much  as  I  look  at  my  marine  engines  on  the  Peewit," 
he  continued.  "  I'm  very  well  content  with  them,  for 
they're  perfect  in  their  way,  and  wit  of  man  couldn't  better 
fit  a  thing  to  the  work  wanted;  but  if  by  God's  will  I'm 

150 


SAMUEL  MUSHET'S  HOLIDAY  151 

allowed  to  handle  steam  in  the  life  beyond  death,  then  I 
naturally  look  to  see  myself  in  command  of  something  with 
more  to  it." 

"  There'll  be  work  no  doubt,"  said  Gregory,  "  but  it  isn't 
for  us  to  say  what  work,  and  it  shows  rather  a  narrow 
view  to  think  we  shall  only  be  gardeners  and  engineers  in 
the  Better  Land." 

"  All  the  same,  you  can't  think  of  it  without  gardens  and 
engines,"  argued  Mr.  INIushet  of  Brightlingsea ;  "  and  if 
gardens  and  engines,  then  skilled,  angelic  angels  to  run 
'em." 

"  You're  wasting  time  to  let  the  mind  dwell  on  it,"  an- 
swered Gregory.  "  All  I  know  is  that  I  shall  do  my  duty 
and  get  advancement  there.  You  and  me  can  face  the 
future  with  perfect  confidence,  knowing  that  in  the  next 
world  we  shall  be  done  by  as  we  do." 

They  ate  an  early  dinner,  after  which  it  was  proposed  to 
spend  a  long  afternoon  in  the  gardens. 

"  I've  told  Bultitude  you're  coming,  and  he's  going  to 
show  you  the  propagating  house  himself,"  promised  Greg- 
ory. "  In  rearing  of  plants  that  man  has  no  equal,  and 
he'll  show  you  some  wonders  of  Nature.  And  old  Pettikin 
must  be  spoke  to,  for  he  remembers  you  very  well,  and 
would  be  hurt  in  his  feelings  if  you  didn't  pass  the  time  of 
day  with  him." 

While  they  ate,  Samuel  told  how  his  son  prospered  with 
the  Royal  Engineers,  and  Nancy's  eyes  smouldered  when 
she  thought  upon  it. 

Gregory  uttered  words  that  he  had  heard  in  a  sermon 
respecting  the  cleansing  and  purifying  of  the  nation. 

"  To  be  cleansed  in  the  life-blood  of  our  children  is  a 
pretty  devilish  bath,  if  you  ask  me,"  said  Nancy  aflame; 
"  and  to  hear  safe  old  men  and  bishops  talk  so,  makes 
me " 

"  Hush,  hush,"  murmured  Samuel.  "  Gregory  don't 
mean  anything  like  that." 

"  The  world  that  can  only  be  kept  sweet  by  the  loss  of 


152  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

its  young  manhood  is  all  wrong  and  rotten,"  she  said, 
"  and  every  woman's  heart  feels  it,  and  every  mother's 
heart  knows  it,  and  men  ought  to  blush  to  look  into  our 
eyes." 

"  That's  pretty  much  what  Andrew  Hempson  says," 
declared  Margery.  "  He's  a  second  lieutenant  now,  and 
came  to  see  his  mother  yesterday.  But  he  says  we've  let 
the  world  slip  into  this  mess  with  our  eyes  open,  and  now 
we've  got  to  pay  the  cost  of  getting  it  out  again.  And 
what  maddens  him  is  that  they  who  pay  the  piper  won't 
call  the  tune.  That's  how  he  puts  it.  He  says  that  our 
rulers  and  parliament  men,  who  might  have  nipped  this 
thing  in  the  bud  ten  years  ago,  if  they'd  been  worth  their 
salt,  will  be  the  very  men  to  make  the  peace ;  and  he  doesn't 
trust  one  of  them  with  the  peace." 

They  talked  and  argued  according  to  their  lights. 
Then  Margery  and  Nancy  left  the  men,  and  the  elder 
spoke  with  great  respect  of  Samuel's  wife. 

"  For  all  she  dressed  me  down  so  sharp,  I  have  a  great 
opinon  of  Nancy,  and  always  did  have,"  he  said.  "  But 
there's  a  narrowness  in  the  Quaker  point  of  view  and  that 
can't  be  denied ;  because,  if  the}'  had  their  way  and  took 
it  lying  down,  what's  going  to  become  of  England,  them- 
selves included.'^  Needs  must  when  the  devil  drives,  and 
the  devil's  drove  Europe  into  this,  and  the  devil  will  take 
the  hindmost,  according  to  his  custom.  And  England 
ain't  going  to  be  the  hindmost,  according  to  hers.  So 
we've  got  to  fight  —  even  to  the  most  peace-loving  among 
us.  But  Nancy  has  a  very  clear  mind  for  a  woman.  And 
no  doubt  you've  been  a  happier  man,  speaking  generally, 
along  with  her  than  you  would  have  been  without  her." 

"  Speaking  generally,  as  you  say,  I  have,"  admitted 
Samuel,  without  any  great  enthusiasm.  "  She's  one  in  a 
thousand,  and  I'm  lucky ;  but  the  very  best  woman  ever 
born  can't  see  life  with  a  man's  eyes,  or  take  the  long  look. 
Their  minds  get  entangled  in  details  and  won't  see  the 
wood  for  the  trees.     They're  born  so.     And  after  long 


SAMUEL  MUSHET'S  HOLIDAY  153 

experience  I  reckon  it's  a  great  art  for  a  man  to  live  with 
his  wife,  Greg.  I  love  Nancy  and  think  the  wide  world  of 
her,  and  yet,  to  you  I  say  this :  that  to  have  lived  under  the 
same  roof  as  her  for  five-and-twenty  years  is  the  cleverest 
thing  that  I've  ever  done,  or  shall  do." 

Gregory  nodded. 

"  I  see  the  point,"  he  said.  "  It's  a  rare  gift  in  you, 
and  there's  no  doubt  the  fact  that  man  and  wife  are  always 
called  to  live  in  each  other's  laps  after  marriage,  compli- 
cates the  state." 

They  set  forth  to  the  gardens  and  spent  two  hours  in 
wandering  through  the  radiant  acres  of  "  Colneside  " ; 
then  they  met  ]Mr.  Bultitude  and,  at  his  invitation,  visited 
the  great  propagating  house  —  a  vital  factor  in  the  econ- 
omy of  the  nurseries. 

Along  one  side  of  this  important  chamber,  under  a  roof 
of  glass,  stood  pots  and  pans  of  choice  seedling  primulas. 
Their  thousands  crowded  the  stage ;  many  were  known 
to  science ;  many  were  come  straight  from  collectors 
in  the  Sikkim  Himalaya  and  had  yet  to  declare  them- 
selves. 

"  Often  the  men  out  there  can  only  get  the  seed,"  ex- 
plained ]Mr.  Bultitude,  "  and  so  we  don't  know  what  we've 
got,  for  they  ma}'  not  be  able  to  send  descriptions,  or  pic- 
tures of  the  bloom." 

The  gardener-in-chief  beamed  over  his  mj^riads. 

"  Like  children,  3'ou  may  say,"  he  declared  to  Mrs. 
Mushet.  "  Thousands  of  children  grow  up  not  worth 
sending  to  market,  so  to  speak ;  but  they're  reared  with 
patience  and  loving  kindness ;  and,  mind  you,  you  can't 
draw  a  line  through  the  parents  either,  no  matter  how 
well  you  know  'em,  for  Nature's  got  her  own  way,  and 
twice  two  ain't  four  by  any  means  when  you're  dealing 
with  a  hybrid.  You  may  have  a  famous  father  and  a 
famous  mother,  with  their  place  secure  in  the  gardeners' 
lists,  but  it  don't  follow  that  their  offspring  are  going  to 
be  famous.      Of  course  you  ma}'  get  a  thing  that  collectors 


15^  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

will  buy  at  your  own  price;  but  far  oftener  you'll  only 
find  a  plant  for  the  rubbish  heap." 

"  Progeny's  a  doubtful  item,  though  the  childless  never 
seem  to  know  their  luck,"  said  Gregory. 

The  choicer  saxifrages  were  propagated  here,  and  new 
hybrids  already  opened  tiny  rosettes  in  fairy  pots  mar- 
shalled by  the  hundred. 

"  Just  the  same  with  plants,"  continued  Bultitude. 
"  The  spirit  of  a  raising  house  is  hope.  You  mix  hope  with 
the  leaf  mould  and  the  water;  and  though  forty  years  of 
crossing  would  chasten  a  flint,  yet  hope  is  just  as  bright  in 
me  to-day  as  when  I  was  three  years  old,  and  planted  a 
clay  marble  and  thought  it  would  grow  to  a  glass  one." 

"  Every  human  pair  that  weds  feels  the  same,"  said 
Nancy. 

"  Humans  are  always  hybrids,  so  far  as  their  higher 
parts  are  concerned,"  answered  the  expert ;  "  for  no  two 
members  of  the  species  are  just  alike  outside,  or  in,  and  so 
it  follows,  in  my  opinion,  seeing  that  Nature  works  the 
same  all  round,  that  as  you  can't  expect  more  than  one  or 
two  good  blends  in  every  thousand  seedlings,  so  you  can't 
expect  more  than  one  or  two  good  blends  in  every  thou- 
sand children." 

"  But  the  bringing  up  —  the  bringing  up,  my  dear 
man ! "  cried  Mrs.  Mushet.  "  You  go  too  far,  and  it 
don't  hold.  These  green  things  haven't  got  Christian 
parents,  nor  yet  Christ  waiting  with  His  Hands  stretched 
out  to  'em!  The  human  boy  and  the  human  girl  have  a 
lot  more  than  the  blood  in  their  veins  to  depend  upon." 

But  Mr.  Bultitude  doubted. 

"  'Tis  the  blood,  ma'am,"  he  answered.  "  A  man's 
character,  like  a  plant's,  is  in  his  blood,  and  training  can't 
sweeten  that  if  it  is  bitter  by  nature,  no  more  than  training 
can  fill  a  head  that  Nature's  planned  empty.  I  say  you 
can't  get  a  grape  from  a  thorn,  but  you  may  get  a  thorn 
from  a  grape,  for  the  natural  tendency  is  to  throw  back,  I 
reckon." 


SAMUEL  MUSHET'S  HOLIDAY  155 

"  A  very  gloomy  thought,  however,"  said  Samuel 
Mushet.  "  It  don't  hold  with  oysters,  anyway ;  give  'em 
what  they  like  and  keep  their  enemies  away,  and  they'll 
come  true  to  type." 

"  Life's  full  of  riddles,"  answered  Mr.  Bultitude.  "  But 
I  say  that  half  the  subjects  that  we  argue  about,  and 
wrangle  about,  and  get  hot  about,  will  solve  themselves 
in  course  of  time,  and  a  man  has  only  got  to  live  sixty  years 
in  the  world  to  see  many  and  many  a  thing  his  mother  and 
schoolmaster  taught  him  for  gospel  truth  blown  sky-high 
by  new  knowledge," 

Opposite  the  seedlings  stretched  the  great  frames  for 
cuttings.  Three  feet  above  ground  there  extended  a  plain 
of  white  silver  sand,  a  yard  broad  and  nearly  thirty  yards 
long.  Glass  lights  on  hinges  covered  it,  and  each  section 
could  be  opened  and  examined  separately.  On  this  little, 
close  plateau  millions  of  cuttings  had  been  struck  by  Mr. 
Bultitude  in  the  course  of  many  years.  The  present  stock 
might  have  numbered  ten  thousand  or  more.  They  stood 
here  in  rows  —  living  fragments  of  every  shape,  and  nearly 
all  so  small  that  three  hundred  could  stand  on  a  square 
foot  without  crowding.  Yet  an  air  of  vigour  and  pros- 
perity marked  their  tiny  groves. 

"  The  secret  with  cuttings  is  to  take  them  at  the  right 
time,"  said  Mr.  Bultitude.  "  Not  too  soon,  not  too  late. 
My  touch  tells  me  when  the  stuff  they  are  made  of  is 
ready." 

He  plucked  a  few  atoms  up  from  the  pure  sand  and 
showed  delicate  filaments,  fine  as  silken  threads,  already 
hanging  from  the  stem. 

They  left  the  old  man  presently  with  thanks  for  his 
attention,  and  returned  to  the  gardens.  Nancy  wanted  to 
see  a  famous  hedge  of  lavender,  worth  the  rest  of  the  col- 
lection, in  her  opinion. 

Then  appeared  the  ancient  Mr.  Pettikin.  He  had  seen 
Samuel  once  in  the  past  and  entertained  .great  admiration 
for  him.     Now  he  dropped   his   weeding  hoe  and   shook 


156  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

hands  with  the  engineer  and  Nancy.  He  was  very  aged, 
but  Mr.  Ambrose  let  him  come  when  he  pleased.  So  he 
still  pottered  in  the  gardens  and  earned  a  few  shillings  a 
week.  He  was  bald,  with  a  ghostly  white  beard,  from 
which  time  had  long  plucked  the  substance.  His  eyes  were 
dim  and  one  was  shrouded  by  a  grey  film.  His  face  had 
fallen  in  upon  a  toothless  mouth  and  wore  an  inquiring 
expression,  as  though  nearly  a  century  of  years  had  failed 
to  provide  him  with  any  rudimentary  meaning  to  existence. 

"  Very  glad  to  see  you  again,  Mr.  Mushet,  sir,"  he  said ; 
"  and  if  this  is  Mrs.  Mushet,  I'm  very  glad  to  see  her  also." 

"  Tell  her  all  them  interesting  things  you  told  me,  Mr. 
Pettikin,"  suggested  Samuel. 

"  So  I  will  then,"  answered  the  ancient,  and  turned  to 
Nancy. 

"  I'm  eighty-eight  and  all  my  race  gone,"  he  said. 
"  Though  an  Essex  man  born,  you  must  know,  I  was  of  a 
very  ranging  turn  of  mind  in  my  middle  years  and  went 
far  afield  —  so  far  as  Leeds." 

"  My  —  what  a  way  to  go  !  "  said  IVIrs.  Mushet. 

"  It  was.  I  can't  remember  ezacally  why  I  went ;  but  it 
was  along  of  horses.  I  was  very  understanding  with 
horses,  and  I  went,  and  I  drove  a  pair  for  very  rich  people. 
And  there  I  married,  aged  fifty-one  years.  I  left  my  wife 
at  Leeds  —  underground,  you  understand.  God  knows  I 
wouldn't  have  left  her  any  place  else,  for  a  better  wife  no 
man  had." 

"  Any  family  ?  " 

"  One  son,  as  ran  away  to  sea.  It  troubled  her ;  but 
were  no  loss  to  me,  for  he  wasn't  a  nice  boy,  though  I  say 
it.  Last  of  the  race  I  am,  for  I  doubt  he's  drowned. 
Twelve  brothers  I  had  —  all  gone,  and  sisters  all  gone. 
There  might  have  been  four  or  five  girls  —  I  can't  mind 
'em  now.  Loved  horses  I  did.  Could  make  'em  do  every- 
thing but  talk.  And  for  that  matter  they  did  talk  to  me 
in  their  own  simple  language." 

"  I'll  warrant  you  understood  them,  Mr.  Pettikin," 


SAMUEL  MUSHET'S  HOLIDAY  157 

"  If  you're  kind  to  them,  they're  kind  to  you.  A  horse 
does  as  he's  done  by  in  a  very  Christian  spirit.  My  old 
people  wouldn't  let  anybody  drive  'em  but  me.  Master 
was  ninety-two  when  he  went  and  I  drove  the  hearse  — 
wouldn't  let  anybody  drive  him  but  me,  you  see,  dead  or 
alive." 

"  You'll  live  to  be  as  old  as  him,  I  shouldn't  wonder," 
said  Samuel. 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  did,"  declared  Mr.  Pettikin. 
"  I'm  very  careful,  for  I  want  to  live,  though  if  you  was  to 
ask  me  why,  I  couldn't  tell  you.  Exercise  the  bones  and 
thej^'ll  hold  together  and  you  live ;  pamper  'em  and  they'll 
fall  apart  and  you  die.  I  get  up  every  morning  at  five 
o'clock  and  hot  my  drink,  and  I  go  to  bed  at  dark,  or 
soon  after." 

"  You  must  have  seen  a  lot  of  changes,"  said  Samuel. 

"  I  must,"  admitted  Mr.  Pettikin ;  "  but  I  take  no  count 
of  'em ;  I  just  go  on  weeding  out  the  weeds.  I  dare  say,  if 
it  could  be  known,  I've  weeded  out  more  weeds  than  any 
man  in  Essex.  There's  Richard  Bare,  a  young  man  still ; 
he's  weeded  a  lot  of  weeds,  but  not  so  many  as  me." 

Samuel  Mushet  felt  in  his  pocket  and  brought  out  a 
leather  purse.  He  opened  it  and  seemed  surprised.  Then 
he  presented  the  aged  gardener  with  half-a-crown,  and 
expressed  great  pleasure  at  meeting  him  again. 

"  And  if  ever  you  go  as  far  as  Brightlingsea,  mind  you 
come  in  and  see  us,"  said  Nancy. 

"  Thank  you,  Mrs.  Mushet,  ma'am,  and  I  will  do  so  ;  and 
long  life  to  you  and  your  good  man  also,"  said  ]Mr.  Petti- 
kin. "  I'd  always  hoped  to  see  him  again,  and  I'm  very 
pleased  it's  happened." 

The}'  left  him,  and  Samuel  spoke  to  Mrs.  Mushet  as 
thej'  returned  with  Gregory  to  tea. 

"  Did  I  give  you  a  fi'-pun  note  at  the  station.'^  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said.     "  You  gave  me  nothing," 

"  Then  I'm  very  sorry  to  report  I've  lost  it,"  declared 
Mr.  Mushet  ruefully.     "  Looking  in  my  purse  a  minute 


158  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

ago  for  a  trifle  for  that  old  man,  I  missed  it;  but  it  must 
have  broken  loose  after  I  took  the  railway  tickets  at  Brit- 
tlesea,  without  a  doubt." 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  that's  serious,"  declared  Nancy. 

"  Hope  for  the  best,"  advised  Samuel's  brother. 

"  I  was  a  bit  rattled  at  the  ticket  office  by  a  lot  of  sol- 
diers," explained  the  engineer.  "  The  fine  men  caught  my 
eye  and  I  didn't  look  after  the  business  in  hand." 

"  You  may  get  it  back  yet  if  some  honest  person  picked 
it  up,"  said  Margery ;  but  Samuel  felt  small  hope.  He 
relapsed  into  gloom,  harped  on  his  misfortune,  and  rather 
spoiled  the  tea.  Gregory  appeared  callous,  and  showed  a 
certain  amount  of  indifference  to  his  brother's  trouble. 

"  It  all  depends  on  the  spirit  you  take  it  in,"  he  told 
Nancy.  "  If  you  look  at  it  as  interest  for  a  whole  year 
on  a  hundred  pounds  saved,  then,  I  grant,  it  seems  a  bit 
serious ;  but  when  you  think  England's  spending  a  lot  more 
than  five  pounds  a  second,  then  it  looks  small." 

Gregory  and  their  niece  saw  husband  and  wife  to  the 
station  presently,  and  they  departed  with  expressions  of 
pleasure  and  gratitude  at  their  entertainment. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Helena's  picnic 

There  came  a  day,  long  desired,  when  Geoffrey  Seabrook 
joined  Mrs.  Ambrose  at  Mersea  and  went  for  a  picnic  with 
her.  He  made  an  early  start  by  the  motor  omnibus  from 
Colchester,  and  enjoyed  a  ride  on  the  top  of  that  vehicle 
to  West  Mersea,  where  the  lady  awaited  him  in  snowy 
white  serge,  with  a  white  yachtsman's  hat,  a  veil  as  blue  as 
Demeter's,  and  a  parasol  to  match  it.  Both  brought  ad- 
ditions to  the  feast,  and  Seabrook,  who  was  in  grey  flannels 
and  yellow  boots,  had  his  hands  full  as  they  proceeded  to 
the  Blackwater  estuary,  whence  the  start  was  to  be  made. 
A  maze  of  land  and  water  spread  here,  the  marshes  being 
protected  from  the  sea  by  dykes  and  the  saltings  extend- 
ing into  the  mud  of  the  estuary  and  suffering  tidal  sub- 
mersions. 

"  Old  Adam  Wyde  is  going  to  row  us  out  to  the  creek 
where  he  has  his  oysters,"  explained  Helena.  "  Then  w-e 
shall  land  and  roam  away  together  for  the  day,  and  he'll 
go  about  his  business  and  come  back  for  us  in  the  evening." 

"  I  wish  he'd  forget  to,"  declared  Geoffrey.  "  Fancy 
being  marooned  with  you  on  the  marshes !  " 

"  We  can  think  of  something  nicer  than  that,"  she  said. 
"  And  mind  you  pay  attention  to  Adam.  And  if  it  ever 
came  out  we'd  been  here,  as  it  may,  then  Adam  is  the 
excuse.  The  Wydes  have  belonged  to  IMersea  ever  since 
men  had  names,  I  believe.  He  preaches  in  the  chapels  — 
a  fanatic,  but  quite  amusing.  He's  said  to  know  all  INIil- 
ton  by  heart,  and  I  dare  say  he  does." 

"  Sounds  rather  dull,"  murmured  Geoffrey ;  but  Helena 
assured  him  the  fisherman  was  anything  but  dull ;  and  then 

159 


160  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

they  descended  the  beach  and  found  Adam  and  his  boat  at 
water's  brink. 

Mr.  Wyde  was  tall  and  powerful,  with  a  Roman  nose, 
red-brown  face  and  grizzled,  red-brown  hair.  His  grey 
eyes  were  small  and  penetrating,  his  moustache  and  beard 
were  cropped  close  to  his  face.  He  wore  no  hat  or  coat, 
and  his  blue  linen  shirt  had  no  collar,  but  was  fastened 
with  a  brass  stud.  Helena  greeted  him  in  friendship,  and 
he  relieved  Geoffrey  of  the  parcels. 

"  Adam's  got  a  fishery  of  his  own,"  explained  Helena, 
"  and  you  can't  beat  his  oysters.  You're  to  take  some 
home  with  you  to-day." 

"  My  oysters  are  a  bit  green  in  the  beard  this  year," 
confessed  Mr.  Wyde.  "  It's  a  pity  there's  a  prejudice 
against  it,  for  the  fish  ain't  a  penny  the  worse.  In  fact, 
there  was  a  time  when  green-bearded  oysters  were  the 
fashion.  We've  got  a  bit  of  rotten  shell  among  us  too. 
'Tis  a  boring  sponge  that  does  it,  and  the  oyster  shell  gets 
soft  and  can't  be  exported  without  smashing.  They  won't 
take  'em  at  Ostend,  though  this  year  it's  no  great  matter, 
because  all  foreign  trade's  shut  down  and  not  an  oyster 
is  leaving  the  land." 

Overhead  a  pride  of  herons  circled  and  soared.  The 
sun  beat  down  and  Helena  gave  Geoffrey  a  little  shade 
from  her  parasol.  They  passed  other  boats  hanging 
about  the  little  peninsulas  of  mud  and  sedge  with  fisher- 
men at  their  trawls ;  and  then  they  reached  the  flats  above 
Adam's  own  layerings.  The  tide  was  low,  and  the  islets 
and  banks  of  earth  shone  above  it,  their  purple  pelt  of  the 
sea  lavender  bright  under  the  sunshine.  Red  and  white 
butterflies  danced  over  the  flowers. 

Mr.  Wyde  brought  his  boat  ashore  and,  without  any 
ado,  picked  up  Mrs.  Ambrose  and  carried  her  over  five 
yards  of  slime  and  ooze  to  dry  ground ;  but  Geoffrey,  who 
mourned  for  his  yellow  boots  and  would  have  liked  to  be 
carried  also,  was  left  to  make  the  best  of  his  way  to 
land. 


HELENA'S  PICNIC  161 

"  I'm  going  to  look  at  some  new  wholves  ^  in  my  oyster 
pits,"  said  Adam,  "  and  then  I'm  going  back  to  Mersea 
City.  And  at  five  of  the  clock  I'll  be  here  for  you.  This 
is  an  island  at  high  tide,  and  don't  you  walk  too  far  inland, 
else  you  won't  be  able  to  get  back  to  it." 

He  left  them  and  they  strolled  away  to  seek  shade  and 
seclusion.  Above  the  marshes  rose  protecting  banks,  and 
within  these  earthern  walls  spread  miles  of  grazing  ground. 
Here  and  there  in  the  midst  stood  a  clump  of  trees,  while 
sheep  and  cattle  roamed  over  the  wide  meadows,  or  clus- 
tered beside  a  water-hole  where  rushes  spattered  their 
dark  green  upon  the  grass.  Fences  ran  here  and  tlicre  to 
separate  the  pastures ;  but  the  land  was  so  low  that  only 
a  streak  of  the  distant  sea  ran  above  the  banks,  and  while 
the  sails  of  an  occasional  oyster  ketch,  or  barge,  loomed 
over  the  green  dykes,  their  hulls  might  not  be  seen. 

The  lovers  talked  together  as  they  walked,  and  Helena 
told  of  the  joy  with  which  she  had  anticipated  their  little 
holiday. 

"  How  heavenly  it  will  be  when  we  can  escape  for  a  week 
together,"  she  said. 

His  eyes  were  on  a  pumping-house  in  the  deserted  fields. 

"  The  very  place,"  he  declared.  "  We'll  find  some  shade 
there,  anyway.  I've  brought  you  a  bottle  of  that  spar- 
kling moselle  you  love." 

"  Angel !  " 

Seabrook  lacked  wisdom,  but  was  rich  in  wisdom's  bas- 
tard brother,  cunning.  She  talked  of  the  subjects  that 
interested  her  erotic  mind,  and  his  point  of  view  appeared. 

"  The  platitudes  you  hear  about  love  are  so  wearisome," 
she  said.  "  A  woman  I  know,  who  wants  a  man  and  can't 
get  him,  says  she  believes  that  yielding  is  the  surest  way  of 
winning  him,  body  and  soul.  Whereas  nine  times  out  of 
ten  it's  the  siege  and  not  the  conquest  that  is  the  fun  for 
you  wretches.'' 

1  Wholves,  sluices. 


162  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  Because  sieges  vary  and  conquests  are  more  or  less 
alike,"  said  Geoffrey.  "  But  that's  not  love  as  it  came  to 
me  and  you." 

"  No,  no  —  we're  not  love-hunters." 

"  A  man  who  is  really  loved,"  he  assured  her,  "  has  won 
an  ally  second  to  none  in  the  world.  That  means  some- 
thing beyond  the  ken  of  those  sensual  fools  —  men  or 
women  —  you  call  love-hunters.  We  found  each  other, 
and  that  meant  that  we  found  the  best  the  earth  had 
for  each  other.  Sit  down  on  my  coat.  This  shade's 
heaven." 

They  called  a  halt,  and  he  dropped  the  lunch  and  went 
on  talking. 

"  I  number  over  the  things  you  mean  to  me  —  the  Good, 
the  Most  High,  the  Complete  Satisfaction,  the  All-Em- 
bracing,  the  Rain,  the  Sun,  Inspiration,  Refuge,  Sanc- 
tuary —  all  that  and  ever  so  much  more  —  Food,  Drink, 
the  Bread  of  Life  and  the  Wine  of  Life." 

"  You're  a  darling !     I  wish  I  was  half  you  think  me." 

She  came  and  sat  on  his  lap,  and  he  caressed  her. 

"  How  long  is  your  husband  going  to  be  away  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  I  don't  know.  He'll  soon  be  bored  and  come  home, 
unless  commissions  brighten  things  for  him." 

"  Thank  God  we're  patient  and  can  look  a  long  way 
ahead.  But  sometimes  my  heart  sinks.  He's  the  sort  of 
well-regulated  man  that " 

Geoffrey  broke  off,  while  Helena  played  with  his  ear 
and  stroked  his  hair. 

"  To  him  you  are  just  a  wife,"  said  Seabrook,  "  just  a 
wife  in  the  most  dismal  acceptation  of  the  term.  To  me, 
you're  the  brightest  manifestation  of  all  that's  vital  and 
sublime  and  unique.  He  thinks  the  world  of  you,  too; 
but  then  what  is  his  idea  of  the  world?  He's  not  mentally 
built  to  measure  you,  or  receive  what  you  can  give.  For 
you  to  live  with  him  is  like  playing  a  Bach  fugue  to  a 
baby.     It's  I  —  outside  in  the  cold  —  who  know  the  mean- 


HELENA'S  PICNIC  163 

ing  of  the  Bach  fugue  —  not  he  who  lives  in  the  same  house 
with  the  music." 

"  I'm  all  yours  to-day,  every  inch  of  me,  you  precious 
lover !  And  always.  There's  nothing  quite  like  you  in 
the  world.  You're  a  phoenix,  and  so  many-sided  —  so 
perfectly  practical  and  so  perfectly  romantic.  A  woman 
can  be  both,  of  course,  but  there's  not  another  man  in 
the  world  but  you  can  be." 

"  I  doubt  if  women  can  be  both,"  he  said.  "  Most  of 
them  make  themselves  think  they're  romantic;  but  jolly 
few  women  really  are  after  thirt3\" 

"  Experience  teaches  them,"  declared  Helena.  "  They 
find  that  the  romantic  men  don't  wear  well,  and  that  the 
practical  ones  pay  best.  So  they  adapt  themselves. 
That's  what  is  so  wonderful  in  you.  You're  a  poet  and 
yet  so  self-possessed  and  self-controlled  and  —  and  — 
almost  businesslike." 

"  We've  got  to  keep  awake,  both  of  us.  If  we  didn't, 
we  might  find  reality  clashing  into  our  romance  a  little  too 
sharply  to  be  pleasant." 

"  I  know,  that's  almost  the  most  wonderful  thing  of  all 
—  to  make  me  feel  absolutely  safe,  as  you  do." 
He  smiled. 

"  Love  sharpens  the  wits.  Men  cooling  in  love  grow 
careless.  That's  the  beginning  of  the  end  and  a  danger 
signal  for  the  woman.  I  love  you  better  every  day  of  my 
life  —  so  you  are  as  safe  as  any  sweetheart  on  earth,  be- 
cause the  very  edge  and  sharpness  of  my  brain  is  sacred 
to  you." 

"  You  triumph  over  difficulties  so  amazingly  —  oh,  I 
adore  you  for  it,  and  am  never  tired  of  wondering." 

"  I  see  the  danger-points,  and  keep  clear  of  them.  Do 
you  know  what  I  used  to  fear  before  I  found  that  you  were 
as  wise  as  you  are  precious?  At  first  I  speculated  some- 
times if  I  should  ever  be  in  the  beastly  fix  of  having  to  pick 
a  quarrel  with  my  master,  or  fall  out  with  my  mistress  —  a 
pretty  choice  of  evils.     But  you  soon  showed  me  that  fear 


164  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

was  vain.  We're  pretty  clever,  both  of  us ;  and  our  trump 
card  lies  in  this,  that  we  both  respect  and  admire  JNIr.  Am- 
brose so  highly.  On  his  own  plane,  he  is  an  admirable 
man.     It's  not  pretence  in  the  least  when  I  praise  him." 

"  There  are  times  when  I  hate  him  awfully  —  when  he 
patronises  you,  that's  the  worst.     It  makes  me  mad." 

"  Don't  let  it  do  that.  I  like  him  to  patronise  me.  It's 
only  a  question  of  your  sense  of  humour.  For  the  rest  we 
must  be  patient  and  weigh  our  chances.  People  would 
say  we  were  infernally  cynical ;  but  we're  not :  we've  only 
got  the  will  to  live  and  the  will  to  enjoy  unusually  devel- 
oped." 

He  pressed  her  close  to  him  and  shut  his  eyes,  like  a  cat 
rolling  over  in  the  sun. 

"Don't  let's  think,  let's  feel  —  just  feel  we're  in  each 
other's  arms,  and  happy  and  healthy,"  she  purred. 

"  If  you  can  balance  thinking  with  feeling,  you  keep 
your  dish  of  life  upright  and  get  the  best  out  of  both 
worlds,"  he  said. 

When  Helena  Ambrose  entered  this  man's  life,  a  deep 
understanding  arose  between  them.  They  soon  estab- 
lished the  closest  possible  intimacy,  and  he  was  absolutely 
faithful,  and  intended  to  be  so  for  the  sake  of  the  future. 
They  looked  far  ahead  and  trusted  each  other. 

Life  and  training  had  never  put  any  conscience  into  Sea- 
brook  and  he  secretly  ignored  human  values  when  they 
clashed  with  his  own,  but  openly  professed  them  at  all 
times.  He  tried  to  make  people  think  him  old-fashioned, 
and  most  people  did.  But  he  only  played  hypocrite  from 
necessity,  not  choice,  and  had  wealth  and  independence 
been  his  portion,  he  would  possibly  have  taken  all  that  he 
could  get  without  pretence.  Need  induced  the  vice,  and 
from  his  schooldays  he  practised  it  and  amused  himself 
with  his  extraordinary  skill  in  duplicity.  It  had  now 
become  second  nature  to  him,  and  he  was  often  devious  for 
the  love  of  being  devious.  He  had  native  skill  in  estima- 
tion of  character  and  delighted  Helena  by  his  display  of  it. 


HELENA'S  PICNIC  165 

He  made  no  miscalculations,  and  had  thus  far  committed 
no  error  in  their  intrigue  and  inspired  her  to  the  same  end. 
She  was  quick,  and  bettered  his  instruction,  but  lacked  his 
absolute  flair.  He  anticipated  the  least  shadow  of  danger, 
and  his  precautions  were  such  that  caution  never  appeared 
to  be  necessary. 

Helena  laughed  now,  and  reminded  him  of  recent  inci- 
dents. 

"  It's  like  playing  billiards,"  he  said.  "  The  good 
player  never  leaves  himself  a  difficult  shot.  There's  only 
one  danger  in  the  world  for  us.  As  long  as  other  people 
do  what  they  ought  to  do,  and  keep  in  character  and 
behave  regularly,  and  don't  go  in  for  unrehearsed  effects, 
nothing  can  ever  floor  us.  We're  safe  as  good  motorists 
are  safe,  while  everybody  else  plays  the  game.  But 
nobody's  proof  against  the  idiot  on  the  wrong  side  of  the 
road.  As  long  as  people  behave  consistently,  we  are  all 
right.  Only  an  earthquake  or  a  lunatic  can  give  the  show 
away." 

"  We  must  avoid  earthquakes  and  lunatics,  my  dear 
genius,"  she  said. 

The  sun  was  hot,  and  the  grass  was  soft  and  sweet  to  lie 
upon.  They  talked  no  more  and  forgot  everything  but 
themselves.  And  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  hidden  from 
them  by  the  pumping-house,  appeared  two  objects,  not 
sheep  or  cattle,  but  a  tattered  man  with  a  sack  on  his 
back  and  a  sweltering  woman,  in  whose  straw  hat  stuck  up 
a  turkey's  feather. 

"  I'm  running  away,  like  a  bit  of  fat  afore  the  fire," 
said  "  Marmalade  Emma  "  to  William. 

"  There's  shade  t'other  side  the  pumping-house,"  he 
answered.  "  We'll  camp  there  and  empty  the  bottles 
and  have  a  sleep." 

They  spoke  no  more  and  shambled  along  silently  over 
the  meadow.  Emma  gasped,  and  her  tongue  hung  from 
the  side  of  her  mouth  like  a  dog's.  As  they  approached 
the   promise   of   shade   and   ascended   the   hillock   to   the 


166  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

pumping-house,  the  sound  of  a  woman's  laughter  arrested 
them,  and  WilHam  held  up  his  hand.  Whereupon  Emma 
stood  still,  and  he,  dropping  his  sack,  went  on  all  fours 
and  crept  to  the  angle  of  the  wall. 

A  moment  later  his  red,  crapulous  face  was  thrust  round 
the  corner.  He  pulled  it  back  instantly,  but  Seabrook 
had  seen  him.  Billy  beckoned  Emma,  spoke  to  her,  cleared 
his  throat  loudly  once  or  twice  and  then,  after  fetching 
his  sack,  marched  into  the  company  of  the  picnickers. 

"Nothing  happens  but  the  unexpected,  does  it.''"  he 
said.  "  Just  come  for  a  sun-bath,  I  expect,  like  me  and 
Emma." 

Seabrook  only  knew  the  pair  by  sight,  but  Helena  had 
been  friendly  to  them  in  secret  on  several  occasions.  She 
exercised  presence  of  mind,  expressed  great  regret  at 
William's  recent  illness  and  hoped  he  was  better. 

"  Dr.  Carbonell  told  me  you  had  consulted  him,"  she 
said. 

"  Yes,  I  consulted  him,"  answered  William.  "  A  very 
large-minded  man  for  his  age.  I'm  all  right.  Emma  and 
myself  are  spending  a  bit  of  time  on  the  saltings  for  our 
health's  sake.  Getting  great  good  from  it,  ain't  we, 
Emma  ?  " 

Emma's  round  eyes  were  fixed  on  Geoffrey  Seabrook. 
She  did  not  answer. 

"  Just  a  little  picnic,"  explained  Helena.  "  Mr.  Sea- 
brook and  I " 

But  the  utter  futility  of  offering  any  explanation  im- 
pressed her  and  she  stopped. 

"  Loneliest  place  in  Essex,  too,"  grinned  William. 
"  Some  people  have  no  luck.  If  it's  a  picnic,  you've  got 
something  to  eat,  and  we're  short  in  that  direction.  I've 
a  drop  of  drink  in  my  bag;  but  we're  badly  off  for  vict- 
uals." 

"  We're  fed  up  with  mushrooms,  and  there  ain't  much 
else  here,"  said  Emma. 

Seabrook  turned  his  attention  to  his  parcels. 


HELENA'S  PICNIC  167 

"  Stop  and  have  some  with  us,  Emma,"  suggested 
Helena ;  but  William  declined, 

"  No,  no  —  two's  company.  And  Emma's  terrible  par- 
ticular who  she  knows.  How's  brother  Parkjm  ?  In  Scot- 
land, they  tell  me  —  eating  grouse  and  wearing  a  kilt,  I 
suppose.^  Deer-stalking,  perhaps?  He'll  bring  yon 
home  a  pair  of  fine  antlers,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

Seabrook  heaped  delicate  food  into  Emma's  apron  and, 
ignoring  the  ribald  William,  sought  to  please  his  com- 
panion. 

"  Have  some  cigarettes,  too?  "  he  asked. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Nasty  thing,  cigarettes,"  declared  William.  "  We're 
pipe  smokers.  Now  we'll  jog  along.  And  don't  you 
worry  —  you're  all  right.  Mum's  the  word.  We'll  go 
back  to  the  next  pump-house,  a  mile  off,  where  we  sleep  of 
a  night." 

"  Have  a  drink  before  you  go,"  proposed  Geoffrey ;  but 
Emma  declined. 

"  Not  out  of  your  bottle,"  she  said. 

"  So  long,  my  children ;  thank  you  for  your  hospitality. 
Good  appetite  —  good  luck !  I'm  sure  he's  a  nice  young 
man,  Helena  —  can  see  that  by  the  way  he  waxes  his  little 
moustache !  " 

For  some  time  after  William  had  departed  the  lovers 
said  nothing  at  all.     Helena  was  hysterical. 

"  '  Your  little  moustache !  your  little  moustache ! '  "  she 
kept  giggling,  apropos  of  nothing. 

Geoffrey  arranged  their  luncheon  and  opened  a  bottle 
of  sparkling  wine. 

"  Drink,"  he  said ;  "  you  want  it." 

She  was  woful  presently  and  full  of  care :  he  pretended 
to  more  calm  than  he  felt,  and  estimated  the  significance 
of  this  discovery. 

The  seasoning  of  their  meal  was  not  love,  but  a  series 
of  shrewd  calculations.  Helena  had  become  vexed  and 
pettish,  and  the  man's  first  care  was  to  restore  her  equi- 


168  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

librium.  He  endeavoured  so  to  do  by  making  light  of  the 
incident. 

"  Luckily  you've  always  been  kind  to  the  creatures.  It 
may  mean  a  little  blackmailing ;  but  if  they  start  that,  the 
only  way  will  be  to  frighten  them.  You  see  nobody,  last 
of  all  Ambrose,  would  take  their  word  against  yours ;  so 
even  if  they  had  the  wish  to  hurt,  they  wouldn't  have  the 
power.     But  I  doubt  if  they've  got  the  wish  to  hurt." 

"  He  might  have  the  wish  to  hurt  Parkyn,  and  he 
wouldn't  care  who  else  suffered.  He  hates  Parkyn. 
That's  the  danger." 

"  I  expect  he's  pretty  shrewd." 

"No  he  isn't  —  he's  just  a  thing  of  impulse.  He's 
dead  to  all  decency ;  you  could  see  that  by  what  he  said." 

"  We  must  discount  him,  then,  and  not  make  any  secret 
of  the  picnic.  The  rest  would  merely  appear  to  be  the 
man's  own  enmity  and  malignance.  Everybody  knows  the 
relations  between  him  and  his  brother.  Your  husband,  as 
I  say,  would  not  believe  it  for  an  instant.  The  beauty  of 
our  real  friendship  has  been  that  not  a  soul  on  earth  can 
point  to  the  shadow  of  its  existence." 

But  she  was  not  so  easily  comforted. 

"  It  looks  to  me  just  as  though  the  very  thing  and  the 
only  thing  that  could  wreck  us  has  happened,"  she  told 
him.  "  Not  ten  minutes  before  they  came  you  had  said 
that  only  a  lunatic  or  an  earthquake  could  wreck  us  — 
and  now  the  lunatic's  come." 

But  he  would  not  allow  this. 

"  He's  not  a  lunatic,  and  if  we  treat  him  as  a  responsi- 
ble person  he'll  behave  as  one.  For  the  minute  3'ou  must 
write  to  Mr.  Ambrose  and  tell  him  I  came  along  early  with 
flowers  for  you,  and  you  kept  me  and  took  me  to  see  Adam 
Wyde.  You  must  say  we  went  on  to  the  saltings,  and  met 
his  brother  and  gave  him  some  food.  I  shall  write  and 
mention  the  fact  that  you  took  me  out  to  lunch.  I  believe 
he  won't  think  of  it  again,  and  you'll  soon  see,  when  he 


HELENA'S  PICNIC  169 

comes  home,  if  there  is  anything  to  trouble  us.  Has  that 
woman  any  control  over  William  Ambrose?  " 

"How  do  I  know?  I  suppose  she  has:  she  always 
crawls  about  with  him." 

"  Well,  don't  worry  before  there's  anything  to  worry 
about.  I'm  not  going  to  take  this  seriously.  The  man's 
a  gin-sodden  creature,  and  a  drunkard's  memory  is  worth- 
less to  begin  with.     He  won't  be  difficult." 

Geoffrey  talked  and  talked;  but  the  day  was  spoiled, 
and  they  were  not  sorry  to  go  back  to  the  landing-place 
presently.  Indeed  they  reached  it  some  time  before  Mr. 
Wyde  returned  for  them ;  therefore  they  sought  him  at  his 
oyster  pits  on  the  mud  banks.  By  this  time  Helena's 
ruffled  feathers  were  a  little  smoother.  She  would  not  let 
Geoffrey  go  until  he  promised  to  come  and  see  her  again 
in  three  days,  and  secretly  she  intended  to  call  at  "  Colne- 
side  "  before  that  date.  For  his  part  Seabrook  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  there  need  be  no  great  cause  for  alarm. 
He  decided  to  recognise  the  tramps  and  show  friendship, 
if  he  came  across  them;  but  not  to  seek  them.  Helena 
would  mention  them  in  her  letter  to  her  husband,  but 
Geoffrey  knew  that  good  taste  demanded  that  he  should  not 
allude  to  the  brother  of  Mr.  Ambrose.  For  his  part  he 
would  dwell  on  the  pleasure  of  the  day,  the  inunense  kind- 
ness of  Mrs.  Ambrose,  and  the  interest  of  meeting  such 
an  intelligent  and  original  fisherman  as  Mr.  W3'de. 

They  found  the  old  man  by  his  pits,  between  which  ran 
little  pathways  of  crushed  oyster  shell. 

"  The  wholves  are  very  well  done  you'll  be  glad  to  hear," 
he  told  them,  "  and  I  praised  the  hand  that  repaired  them. 
'Always  keep  a  good  word  for  a  good  job,'  is  m}'  motto, 
'  and  don't  spare  blame  for  a  bad  one.'  Here's  some 
oyster  shells  I've  picked  up  for  you  to  see.  '  German  writ- 
ing '  we  call  that.  It's  a  sea  worm  that  builds  on  the  shell 
and  makes  that  scrawl  over  it  —  as  hard  as  stone.  In 
fact  it  is  stone." 


170  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  Why  German  writing?  "  asked  Helena ;  but  Mr.  Wyde 
could  not  say. 

The  scene  had  changed  and,  on  the  top  of  the  tide, 
their  boat  soon  floated  over  green  banks  of  sea  lavender 
and  silver  orache,  now  submerged.  Helena  looked  down 
through  the  water  and  could  see  the  flowers  and  grasses 
glimmering  beneath  it.  Where  butterflies  had  danced  lit- 
tle fish  now  moved,  and  a  very  beautiful  dark  purple 
medusa  palpitated  in  the  crystal  beside  the  boat.  Others 
of  less  lovely  colour  swam  in  the  sea  also,  with  dark  pat- 
terns painted  upon  their  translucent  domes. 

"  Stingers,"    said    the    fisherman.     "  Don't    you    touch 
'em,  Mrs.  Ambrose,  else  you'll  suff'er  for  it.     I  may  tell 
you  I'm  pleased.     For  dredging  just  now,  I  fetched  up 
some  of  my  new  Nore  culch  and  found  nice  brood  on  it. 
And  I've  brought  you  a  dozen  good  oysters  for  your  sup- 
per, Mrs.  Ambrose,  hoping  you'll  accept  the  same." 
Helena  thanked  him  and  whispered  to  Geoff^rey  — 
"  You  shall  have  them :  I  never  touch  them," 
They  landed  presently,  bade  the  fisherman  farewell  and 
walked  up  to  the  starting-point  of  the  motor  omnibus  for 
Colchester.      Soon  Seabrook  took  his  leave.     He  had  won 
her  smiles  again  before  he  departed,  and  went  home  on  the 
top  of  the  vehicle,  thoughtfully  damning  the  incident  of 
the  day. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WEDDED 

Emma  and  William  discussed  their  adventure  after  leaving 
the  picnickers. 

"  For  two  pins  I'd  show  up  that  young  dog  to  Parkyn," 
said  the  man.  "  It  would  be  returning  good  for  evil  — 
that's  the  only  objection." 

"  Helena  Ambrose  has  always  been  very  sporting,  and 
we've  had  a  good  few  half-sovs  out  of  her  on  the  quiet," 
answered  Emma.  "  'Tis  a  master-bit  of  wickedness  and 
all  that,  but  you  always  do  look  all  round  a  thing,  and 
when  you  look  all  round  that  woman's  life  lived  along  witli 
your  brother,  you  feel  'tis  a  case  for  Christian  charit3\ 
Goodstruth !  Think  of  her  —  a  man-eating  sort  of  woman 
like  her  —  doomed  to  live  with  her  husband,  and  not  a  mite 
of  comfort  from  j^ear  to  year." 

"  I  don't  blame  her  for  trying  to  get  a  bit  of  life  into 
life.  But  the  chap's  fair  game.  He  kept  his  nerve.  He 
may  be  a  fool,  or  he  may  not.  We  shall  see.  If  he  comes 
to  me,  he's  a  fool.  If  he  don't,  perhaps  I  shall  go  to  him. 
I  want  a  bit  of  mone}^  against  the  winter." 

"  Don't  3^ou  do  nothing  mean  like  that.  You  ain't  that 
sort.  I  expect  he's  nilly  skeercd  in  a  fit  about  it,  because 
he  works  at  *  Colneside  '  and  gets  his  bread  from  j^our 
brother.  He  must  be  a  terrible  deceitful  young  man  — 
properly  wicked,  you  might  say.  Perhaps,  if  he  gets  to 
know  Mrs.  Brown  is  painting  my  picture  in  the  gardens 
next  week,  he'll  offer  to  make  friends." 

For  Emma  had  so  far  conquered  William  on  Aveline's 
behalf  that  he  consented  to  the  proposed  picture,  and  a 
week  after  the  adventure  on  the  saltings,  she  kept  an  ap- 

171 


172  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

pointment,  sat  down  with  her  bundle  In  front  of  a  mass  of 
scarlet  torch  lilies  and  permitted  her  friend  to  paint  her 
portrait. 

William  meantime  took  off  his  withered  boots,  washed 
his  feet  in  a  lily  pond  and  then  slumbered  on  a  sunny 
bank.  Seabrook  was  aware  from  Mistley  that  the  pair 
were  in  the  gardens ;  but  he  revealed  no  interest  and  made 
no  effort  to  see  them. 

"  The  beggar  was  over  at  Mersea  last  week,  when  Mrs. 
Ambrose  took  me  to  see  old  Adam  Wyde,  and  we  gave  him 
and  that  appalling  woman  half  our  lunch.  However,  she 
was  picturesque.  I  expect  Mrs.  Brown  will  make  a  de- 
lightful drawing." 

Since  the  announcement  of  his  engagement,  Peter  Mist- 
ley  had  received  many  congratulations,  and  none  more 
hearty  than  those  of  his  colleague.  The  wedding  was  not 
to  be  delayed ;  indeed  they  only  waited,  at  Helena's  wish, 
until  Mr.  Ambrose  should  return ;  and  then,  to  please  the 
master  rather  than  themselves,  they  agreed  to  be  married 
in  church. 

Both  desired  a  civil  marriage  only ;  but  Mr.  Ambrose 
argued  with  Peter  and  made  such  a  point  of  it,  that  the 
draughtsman  could  not,  without  ungraciousness,  refuse. 

"  If  it  were  a  matter  of  conscience  I  should  be  the  last 
to  raise  the  question,"  said  Parkyn ;  "  but  my  wife  tells  me 
that  Mrs.  Brown  is  indifferent,  and  I  am  sure  you  are  not 
so  narrow-minded  as  to  feel  any  personal  objection  to  our 
noble  service,  or  quarrel  with  those  who  hold  matrimony  a 
solemn  sacrament." 

"  We  only  want  it  as  quiet  as  can  be,  Mr.  Ambrose." 

"  That  is  your  affair.  But  my  wife  and  I  will  attend 
the  ceremony,  if  you  have  no  objection." 

"  It  is  paying  us  a  great  compliment,"  said  Peter.  He 
had  planned  a  brief  holiday  after  the  event ;  and  Aveline 
begged  for  Cornwall,  which  pleased  him  well  enough. 

At  church  but  few  appeared,  and  behind  the  company, 
alone,  sat  Emma,  under  the  turkey  feather.     Her  eyes 


WEDDED  173 

were  moist  and  she  dreamed  dreams,  for  she  had  grown  to 
love  Aveline. 

She  told  William  all  about  the  service  afterwards. 

"  They  went  straight  away  from  the  church  door  to  the 
station,"  she  said ;  "  but  I  flung  my  bag  of  rice  over  'em 
and  then  hooked  it  before  the  gang  came  out.  There  was 
Margery  Mayhew  along  with  old  Greg  Mushet,  and 
Helena,  all  ashimmering,  in  a  gown  like  as  if  she'd  rolled 
in  a  flower-bed,  and  3"our  brother  —  just  as  usual.  And 
that  beauty  you  catched  at  Mersea  —  he  was  sitting  down 
the  church  a  hundred  miles  ofi^,  as  if  butter  wouldn't  melt 
in  his  mouth.  And  she  —  Aveline  —  in  silver  grey,  and  a 
white  feather  to  her  hat  —  just  a  aingel  in  woman's 
clothes.  My  Gord !  she  is  a  lovely  piece !  I  hope  he'll  be 
good  to  her.  A  dark-faced  man,  with  straight  eyebrows 
and  stiff  in  the  back ;  but  'andsome.  I  was  a  mark  on  the 
chap  when  he  came  out,  and  popped  the  rice  all  over  him. 
He  laughed,  and  she  said  'twas  nice  of  me  to  be  there. 
They  take  the  honey-month  away  West." 

At  Penzance  Mistley  visited  certain  noble  gardens  with- 
out form  but  rich  in  notable  plants ;  while  Aveline  rejoiced 
at  the  cliffs  and  the  sea.  They  lived  in  a  dream  of  abso- 
lute happiness,  unclouded  as  far  as  he  was  concerned. 
With  marriage  she  emptied  nearly  all  her  heart  to  him, 
yet  found  that  the  secret  arcanum  she  had  pictured  as 
being  thrown  open  at  last,  was  now  closed  for  ever.  She 
hoped  vaguely  that  it  would  never  be  opened  at  all,  and 
yet,  at  the  bottom  of  her  mind,  was  a  fixed  conviction  that 
it  would.  She  soothed  her  soul  by  telling  Peter  many 
things  that  she  could  not  tell  him  before  their  marriage. 

They  went  to  the  Scilly  Islands  that  they  might  see  a 
very  famous  collection  of  plants;  and,  in  the  steamer,  as 
they  sat  together  and  watched  the  sea,  she  spoke  of  the 
past. 

"  After  we  were  married  —  the  moment  after  —  I  knew 
he  was  no  good  to  me  —  body  or  soul.     Good  to  nearly 


174  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

everybody,  but  not  to  me.  You'd  say  I  ought  to  have 
found  that  out  sooner;  but  I  didn't.  The  secret  of  the 
sex  union  is  often  an  apocalypse  to  a  girl.  It  ought  to 
be  a  minor  thing;  but  it  isn't,  and  a  maiden  can't  know 
before,  and  afterwards  it  is  too  late.  I  knew  the  day  fol- 
lowing my  marriage  that  my  husband  wasn't  the  man  I 
ought  to  share  my  life  with.  Being  a  man  yourself,  I  sup- 
pose you  can't  understand  what  an  insufferable,  appalling 
sort  of  discovery  that  was.  It  nearly  drove  me  mad,  any- 
way. Our  honeymoon  was  one  long  dreadful  deceit  on  my 
part,  and  the  more  I  knew  this  couldn't  be  love,  the  fiercer 
I  fought  to  make  it  appear  that  it  was.  He  didn't  find 
it  out ;  I  don't  think  he  ever  did  find  it  out  —  till  I  told 
him." 

"  What  were  the  symptoms  when  you  settled  down  to 
live  with  him  ?  "  asked  Peter. 

*'  Everything  seemed  incomplete,  as  if  you  began  dinner 
and  had  to  stop  with  the  fish.  I  felt  tremendous  possi- 
bilities about  me,  if  I  only  had  food  to  make  me  strong 
enough  for  them.     Spiritual  food,  I  mean." 

"  No  sympathy  ?  " 

"  Plenty ;  but  no  understanding  —  and  sympathy  with- 
out that  is  bricks  without  mortar.  He  couldn't  see  and 
I  couldn't  explain,  because  no  explanation  would  have 
made  him  see.  You  can't  alter  people  by  explaining  them 
to  themselves:  you  only  alter  their  opinion  of  you.  He 
was  a  very  learned  man,  and  so  gentle  that  he  wouldn't 
have  hurt  a  fly.  And  3'^et  he  tortured  me.  So  I  starved 
and  felt  that,  for  nothing  but  simple  starvation,  I  was  not 
doing  the  little  I  might  do." 

"  Didn't  he  like  your  pictures.''  " 

"  How  could  he  ?  That  was  nothing.  He  had  his  own 
tastes,  and  if  my  pictures  bored  him,  much  that  he  enjoyed 
bored  me.  But  those  are  outside  things.  He  often  did 
like  my  pictures  and  I  was  often  interested  in  sides  of  his 
work.  It  wasn't  that.  It  was  his  attitude  to  married 
life." 


WEDDED  175 

"  You  were  made  to  be  loved,  and  he  didn't  love  you?  " 

"  He  thought  he  did.  He  was  a  model  husband ;  but 
there's  such  a  lot  of  difference  between  a  model  and  a  real 
thing,  isn't  there?  No,  he  didn't  love  me,  because  he 
couldn't.  Lots  of  people  —  women  as  well  as  men  — 
think  they  are  loving  somebody,  when  all  the  time,  they 
haven't  got  the  power  to  do  it.  Love's  no  more  given  to 
everybody  than  any  other  gift.  And  what  does  a  girl 
know  about  it  before  she  feels  it  —  or  a  boy,  either? 
They're  attracted :  they  like  each  other ;  they  build  up  pic- 
tures of  each  other  and  think  about  each  other  and  say, 
'  This  is  love.  How  wonderful  —  how  tremendous ! ' 
They  they're  fearfully  proud  of  each  other  for  being  in 
love  with  each  other,  and  presents  they  marry ;  and  then, 
if  by  bad  luck  one  does  really  find  out  what  love  means, 
while  the  other  goes  ambling  uneventful!}^  on  incapable  of 
love  —  there  you  are  —  a  tragcd}'." 

"  The  only  hope  is  for  neither  ever  to  feel  the  real 
thing,"  said  Mistley.     "  Then  you  get  a  happ}^  marriage." 

"  Neither,  or  both.  If  both  do,  then  they  can  part  like 
a  gentleman  and  gentlewoman.  But  if  one  does  and  the 
other  doesn't  —  if  one  knows  it's  all  wrong  and  the  other 
thinks  it's  all  right " 

"  I  Avonder  what  you'd  have  done  if  your  liusband  hadn't 
died?  "  he  asked. 

"  Died  myself,"  she  said.     "  One  of  us  had  to  die." 

Presently  she  surprised  Peter. 

"  You're  like  him  in  some  ways  —  yes,  you  are  ;  but  oh, 
so  gloriously  unlike  him,  too." 

The  man  felt  a  queer  shadow,  a  chill  —  not  for  himself 
but  for  the  dead.  Peter  unconsciously  accepted  the  con- 
vention that  to  speak  ill  of  the  dead  is  unworthy.  Avcline 
had  not  spoken  ill  of  the  dead  explicitly ;  but  it  seemed  to 
him  that  she  was  callous.  He  set  it  down  to  all  she  had 
suffered. 

"  The  huge  difference  between  you  is  that  3'ou  can  laugh, 
and  that  to  you  art  is  alive,"  she  went  on.     '*  If  we  ever 


176  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

quarrelled,  you  and  I,  we'd  only  have  to  begin  talking  of 
art  to  forgive  each  other  in  five  minutes." 

"  Yet  he  cared  for  art?  " 

"  Only  in  a  deadly,  archaeological  sort  of  way.  He 
liked  things  in  the  same  way  that  Dr.  Corbonell  likes  them 
—  for  their  bearing  on  history,  not  for  their  bearing  on 
your  heart  and  soul.  Pottery  and  flint  arrowheads  never 
made  him  joyous;  or  if  they  did,  he  never  showed  it.  He 
was  born  without  imagination.  Once  I  felt  more  sick  of 
life  than  usual,  and  I  wouldn't  get  up,  and  said  I'd  got  a 
headache,  because  if  I'd  said  I'd  got  a  heartache  he 
wouldn't  have  understood.  Then  came  a  wretched  piano- 
organ  outside  the  house  and  I  jumped  up  naked  and 
danced  —  just  danced  round  and  round  my  bedroom.  And 
he  came  up  with  some  dry  toast  and  a  cup  of  tea  and 
caught  me  whirling  about  like  a  drunken  bacchante.  He 
thought  I  had  gone  mad.  He  began  to  talk  to  me  gently 
and  soothingly ;  but  when  I  said  I  wasn't  mad  in  the  least, 
he  became  angry  —  angry  for  him,  that  is  —  and  told  me 
I  was  no  longer  a  child.  My  God !  I  knew  that  well 
enough.  What  d'you  suppose  pained  him  most?  He 
said,  '  Think  if  the  housemaid  had  come  in ! '  " 

"  And  what  did  you  answer?  " 

"  I  told  him  housemaids  don't  come  in  without  knock- 
ing." 

Peter  stroked  her  hand. 

"  Poor  little  chappie !  "  he  said. 

For  her  confidences  Aveline  won  Peter's ;  but  his  life  had 
been  uneventful  and  for  the  most  part  devoted  to  work. 
He,  too,  was  an  orphan,  and  had  no  near  relations.  They 
shared  only  one  skeleton,  but  that  was  as  yet  so  far  dis- 
tant that  it  seemed  small.  There  existed  the  possibility 
that  Peter  might  be  called  to  the  army ;  yet  for  the  pres- 
ent no  demand  had  gone  forth,  and  he  laboured  under  no 
immediate  sense  that  it  was  his  duty  to  enlist.  She,  for 
her  part,  trusted  that  the  need  would  not  arise. 

They  lived  in  the  passing  hour,  and  the  woman,  with  her 


WEDDED  177 

genius  for  subordinating  painful  thought,  was  happier 
than  she  had  ever  been;  while  he  rejoiced  as  the  sublime 
understanding  grew  between  them,  and  the  full  splendour 
of  a  very  perfect  love  swept  like  a  dawn  over  wedded  life. 

From  the  first  she  took  deep  interest  in  his  work  and 
appreciated  his  theories.  That  she  had  indeed  already 
done ;  but  now  he  found  that  Aveline  had  no  mind  to  look 
on  from  the  outside.  From  mastering  his  principles,  she 
brought  her  own  artistic  inventiveness  to  bear  upon  them, 
and  though  never  once  did  she  advance  advice,  or  do  more 
than  praise  what  he  had  made,  or  intended  to  make,  yet 
when  he  invited  an  opinion,  or  asked  her  to  judge  between 
alternatives,  she  hesitated  not  to  do  so ;  and  it  was  not 
love  that  made  him  know  she  was  right,  but  art. 

"  Now  your  every  garden's  a  bit  of  myself,  because  it's 
a  bit  of  yourself,"  she  told  him. 

"  The  only  mistakes  you  ever  make,"  he  said,  ''  are  be- 
cause you  haven't  yet  mastered  the  stuff  I  have  to  work 
in." 

As  intimacy  ripened  the  woman  noticed  a  new  thing  in 
the  man  —  a  manifestation  of  character  that  had  seldom 
appeared  during  the  anxieties  of  his  courting.  He  grew 
now  more  genial,  saw  more  humour  in  the  world  and  dis- 
played more  humour  in  his  own  outlook.  They  often 
laughed  together  and  she  quickened  his  sense  of  the  comic. 
But  the  war  came  nearer. 

"  You  open  my  eyes  wider  every  day,"  he  said. 

"  Not  I,"  she  answered ;  "  it's  only  your  own  feeling  for 
justice.  You  see  what  a  difference  there  is  between  two 
people  who  have  got  the  best  thing  in  the  world  and  nearly 
everybody  else.  And  you  see  what's  the  average  luck  of 
the  average  man  and  woman." 

"  Khaki's  another  colour  now,"  he  answered ;  but  she 
had  not  meant  that.  Indeed  she  was  quick  to  turn  his 
thoughts  from  the  war  to  the  best  of  her  power.  Yet, 
from  the  height  of  his  own  triumphant  happiness,  he  was 
too  just  to  refuse  the  larger  vision  that  it  brought.     Tlie 


178  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

war  knocked  at  their  door  with  bony  fingers.  The  enemy 
flew  by  night  above  their  new  home ;  the  men  from  France 
were  coming  and  going  in  thousands.  Peter  began  to 
spend  some  of  his  leisure  with  the  wounded.  He  went 
shyly  at  first,  much  doubting  his  power  to  entertain  them ; 
but  he  persisted,  and  the  experience  proved  valuable.  The 
massive  testimony  of  man  after  man  accumulated  and 
awoke  in  him  a  pride  of  country  that  the  artist  is  often 
found  to  deprecate.  He  had  been  international  in  thought 
and  feeling,  he  had  held  that  the  artist  belongs  to  a  com- 
monwealth whose  bounds  extend  beyond  all  lands,  to  em- 
brace all  peoples.  But  now  he  found  in  time  of  storm  that 
it  was  a  very  great  thing  to  be  an  Englishman ;  he  took 
"  the  thunder  of  that  ancient  name  upon  his  lips  with  rev- 
erence " ;  and  Aveline  shared  his  growing  pride  in  the 
achievements  of  the  kingdom. 

Through  this  influence,  and  by  many  other  channels, 
the  inner  natures  of  both  ripened,  while  the  bases  of  their 
united  life  grew  broad  and  took  firm  root  beneath  the 
beauty  of  perfect  relationship. 

"  I  believe  we're  only  beginning  to  know  all  that  love 
really  means,"  said  she,  after  they  had  been  married  for 
six  weeks.  "  It's  like  a  heavenly  flower  just  opening, 
Peter  —  every  day  seems  to  show  another  delicious  petal." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    POPPY 

Mrs.  Jane  Hempson  felt  sorry  for  herself,  and  with  rea- 
son. Since  the  departure  of  Aveline  the  widow  had  not 
succeeded  in  getting  another  lodger ;  and  now  her  son  was 
about  to  go  to  France  with  his  regiment.  He  spent  a  few 
days  with  her  before  he  started. 

Neither  was  sentimental,  but  they  loved  one  another, 
and  the  mother  spoke  of  a  matter  near  her  heart. 

"  I  don't  hold  with  a  lot  of  these  young  men  rushing 
into  marriage  before  they  go  abroad,"  she  said.  "  In  a 
good  few  cases  it's  a  hysterical  sort  of  business  on  both 
sides,  and  doubtfully  fair  to  the  State,  because  there's 
bound  to  be  a  cruel  lot  of  these  bo3's  fall,  and  that  means 
pensions  that  the  nation  may  have  to  go  on  paying  for 
more  than  half  a  century.     But  you " 

He  stopped  her. 

"  Haven't  you  said  enough  to  prove  my  case  is  just  like 
all  the  rest?  Granted  that  I'm  older  than  these  lads 
rushing  into  it,  then  so  much  the  more  reason  I  should 
have  sense.     And  Margery " 

"  If  you  hadn't  interrupted,  Andrew,  you'd  have  found 
there  was  no  need  to,"  replied  Mrs.  Hempson.  "  I'm  not 
saying  you  ought  to  marry  her  —  not  for  a  minute  —  but 
I  am  saying  you  might  get  something  definite  before  you 
go.      You  want  it,  and  I've  told  3'ou  she  wants  it." 

"  That's  what  I  can't  believe,"  he  said.  "  We're  very 
good  friends,  and  she  knows  I  value  her  friendship ;  and 
she  also  knows  that  if  things  had  gone  right  before  the 
war,  I  should  have  asked  her  to  marry  me,  wlien  I  came 
back.     But  they  didn't,  and  they're  not  gloriously  right 

179 


180  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

now,  either.  I'm  doing  my  duty  and  that's  all  you  can 
say." 

"  You  make  me  despair,"  answered  his  mother.  "  Don't 
you  know,  even  now,  after  all  Mrs.  Mistley  told  me  and  all 
I've  gleaned  for  myself,  that  she  can't  be  free,  and  that 
there's  only  one  man  in  the  world  for  her?  " 

"If  I  thought  so  I'd  —  I'd  just  touch  on  the  subject 
and  remind  her  of  the  understanding,  to  be  special  friends, 
that  we  had  before  I  went  to  China,  and  ask  her  if  it  can 
stand  while  I'm  in  France." 

*'  It's  a  cold-blooded  sort  of  arrangement ;  but  seeing 
what  she  feels  and  the  slights  she's  had  to  suffer  from  you, 
no  doubt  it  will  be  a  glimpse  of  heaven  for  her,"  answered 
his  mother  scornfully. 

The  unimpassioned  Andrew  would  not,  however,  grant 
this. 

"  You  may  say  this  and  Mrs.  Mistley  may  say  that ;  but 
you  can't  be  dead  sure  you're  right,  or  know  what's  in  her 
mind." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  her  what's  in  her  mind,  then,  like 
any  sane  man  would?  " 

"  There  again :  I  don't  think  that  is  within  my  right. 
She  shall  have  a  chance  of  telling  me,  however." 

"  You're  so  vague  and  shadowy  that  the  poor  wretch 
can't  meet  you  half  way  and  get  down  to  something  solid," 
said  Mrs.  Hempson. 

He  was  smoking  his  pipe  after  an  early  breakfast. 

"  I'm  going  into  Colchester  now,  for  that  matter." 

"  Well,  I  want  a  message  to  Margery,  so  you  can  take  it. 
You'll  catch  her  before  she  goes  to  '  Colneside  '  if  you 
start  at  once.  Tell  her  from  me  to  call  this  evening;  and 
tell  her  from  yourself But  there,  you're  past  pray- 
ing for,"  answered  Mrs.  Hempson.  "  You  properly  lost 
your  nerve  in  China,  I  believe." 

"  Then  I  hope  I  shall  get  it  back  in  France,"  he  said. 
"  But  I  haven't  lost  my  nerve.  It  all  comes  to  her  atti- 
tude to  me,  and  I'll  go  a  step  towards  finding  out  what 


THE  POPPY  181 

that  exactly  is,  if  I  can  do  so  without  putting  any  unfair 
strain  on  her  mind." 

Jane  Hempson  watched  him  depart  and  shook  her  head. 
Andrew's  line  of  action  in  this  great  affair  appeared  slov- 
enly to  his  mother.  But  he  was  all  of  a  piece,  and  a  certain 
inexact  outlook  upon  life  appeared  in  this  vague  view  of 
Margery.  "  She'll  have  to  go  a  step  or  two  out  of  her 
usual  way  to  meet  him,  or  nothing  will  ever  be  done," 
thought  Mrs.  Hempson ;  "  and  with  her  sensitive  and  high- 
strung  and  worked  up  to  a  nervous  state  at  the  thought 
of  Andrew  going,  and  with  him  rambling  and  doubtful,  it's 
a  very  uncertain  thing  if  they'll  ever  reach  to  certainty." 

Andrew  meantime  went  his  way,  entered  presently  the 
outer  gate  of  "  Fair  View  Villa  "  and  found  Margery  in 
her  garden.  She  had  a  little  patch  of  ten  square  feet 
granted  her  by  Gregory,  and  within  that  space  she  planted 
what  she  pleased.  It  was  in  a  corner  and  did  not  inter- 
fere with  Mr.  Mushet's  own  stern  horticulture. 

She  had  her  back  turned,  but  heard  his  footstep  and 
knew  it  very  well. 

They  shook  hands  and  he  gave  the  message  from  his 
mother. 

"  I'll  go,  of  course,"  she  said. 

"  Gardening,  I  see?  " 

"  Only  making  sure  my  garden  is  tidy.  Uncle  Greg  lets 
me  have  it  on  condition  I  keep  it  as  neat  as  his  —  and 
that's  an  effort.     Did  you  ever  see  such  a  garden  as  his?  " 

"  It  reminds  me  of  soldiers  drilling,  somehow,"  he  an- 
swered. "  I  can't  tell  3^ou  why ;  but  it's  like  a  review  — 
everything's  presenting  arms,  as  if  it  was  being  inspected." 

She  remembered  a  trifle,  and  a  flush  of  colour  came  into 
her  face,  a  look  almost  of  fear  into  her  eyes.  She  sug- 
gested a  bird  that  tries  to  lure  a  prying  stranger  away 
from  her  nest.  Her  furtive  eyes  glanced  down  at  her 
garden,  and  then  she  stood  between  it  and  the  visitor. 

"  Come  out  to  the  gate.     I  must  be  off,"  she  said. 

"  I  know ;  so  must  I ;  but  wait  half  a  moment." 


182  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

She  stood  helpless,  divided  between  rejoicing  that  he 
should  want  to  talk,  and  dread  of  a  little  secret  only  hid- 
den from  him  by  her  person. 

For  his  part  he  was  wondering  what  to  say,  and  took 
refuge  in  the  past. 

"  When  I  drill  ray  men,  nowadays,  I  often  wish  that  I'd 
had  soldiers  to  help  me  when  I  was  collecting  plants,  in- 
stead of  niggers." 

"  If  you'd  had  soldiers,  you  wouldn't  have  failed.  I  ex- 
pect soldiers  like  your  ways." 

"  My  ways  are  different,"  he  said.  "  If  you're  an  of- 
ficer, you've  got  to  lead.     I  look  harder  than  I  am." 

"  You  don't  look  hard,  Andrew.  Even  without  your 
beard  you  don't." 

His  hands  were  in  his  pockets  and  his  head  downcast. 

"  You  and  I,"  he  began,  "  you  and  I,  Margery,  have 
always  been  jolly  sensible." 

"  Have  we?  " 

Involuntarily  she  moved,  and  his  gaze  fell  upon  a  little, 
mean  flower  she  had  thought  was  concealed.  It  was  a 
flower  for  which,  when  hidden  in  the  seed,  he  had  suffered 
much.  After  experiment,  however,  the  crop  was  de- 
stroyed, and  Andrew  did  not  know  that  it  existed  still  in 
England.  Now  he  stared  and  forgot  everything  but  the 
little,  dirt-coloured  poppy  that  was  thriving  here  and 
flaunting  its  ugliness  happily.  It  took  him  back  to  the 
discovery  of  the  capsules,  the  belief  that  he  had  found  a 
very  great  treasure,  his  struggle  to  keep  the  seed  while 
universal  loss  and  disaster  overtook  the  rest  of  his  expedi- 
tion, and  the  memory  that  for  three  days  and  nights  the 
worthless  seed-pods  had  never  left  his  hand. 

"  Good  Lord,  Margery,  my  poppy  !  "  he  murmured. 

The  murder  was  out,  and  the  little  gardener  trembled. 
She  had  to  choose  between  tears  and  some  other  expression 
of  emotion.  Indifference  before  his  discovery  was  impos- 
sible. She  tried  to  laugh  and  failed.  To  pretend  she  did 
not  know  the  poppy  was  there  would  be  vain.     For  some 


THE  POPPY  183 

moments  she  kept  silence,  and  that  was  the  best  thing  she 
could  do ;  for  it  gave  Andrew  time  to  get  over  his  astonish- 
ment and  weigh,  in  the  uncertain  balance  of  his  mind,  the 
significance  of  this  discovery.  While  she  half  turned  her 
back,  he  examined  his  futile  flower  and  saw  that  only  love 
had  set  it  there. 

"  That !  "  he  said. 

Margery  grew  very  pale.  She  did  not  know  what  to 
answer.  There  existed  no  possible  excuse  but  the  right 
one. 

"I  —  I  value  it,"  she  told  him,  and  bent  to  tend  some- 
thing else.  For  a  while  he  did  not  speak,  but  his  mind 
moved  swiftly  enough  and  his  dark  eyes  grew  bright. 
Here  surely,  if  ever,  was  certainty.  The  thing  thrust  out 
and  forgotten  had  become  the  headstone  of  Margery's 
corner.  Why  had  she  treasured  a  flower  worthless  every 
way,  but  for  the  reason  that  made  it  precious  to  her  heart.'' 
A  thousand  assurances  from  other  people  had  not  carried 
half  the  weight  of  this  blossom  now  looking  up  at  the  man 
and  reminding  him  of  a  bitter  past.  Yet  how  much  more 
it  told  of  the  present !  Only  a  fool  could  misinterpret 
this,  and  Andrew  was  no  fool. 

"  You  little  wonder !  "  he  said.  "  That  tells  me  what 
Pve  been  wanting  to  know  for  many  a  day." 

"  It's  —  it's  interesting,  Andrew.     I  kept  it " 

"  I  know  why  you  kept  it,  and  I'll  ask  you  to  go  on 
keeping  it.  I  hated  it  till  now.  And  now  I'd  go  through 
fire  and  water  for  the  wretched  weed.  Come  indoors  a 
minute." 

She  followed  him,  and  they  stood  under  the  picture  of 
Mr.  Mushet's  wolves. 

"  Margery,"  he  said,  "  I'm  going  to  France  next  week." 

She  nodded. 

"  Will  you  marry  me  when  I  come  back  ?  " 

She  felt  faint,  and  put  out  her  arms  helplessly  ;  but  when 
she  found  herself  in  his,  she  recovered. 

"  I  love  you,  Margery,  and  have  loved  you  these  hun- 


184  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

dred  years.  Only  —  only  for  fairness  I  couldn't  fix  it  up. 
Everything  went  wrong  and  it  didn't  seem  sporting,  and 
—  but,  after  all,  it  was  for  you  to  say  '  yes,'  or  '  no.' 
I've  had  it  in  my  mind  to  give  you  the  chance  a  thousand 
times ;  but  what  had  I  to  offer,?  And  what  have  I  to  offer 
now  for  that  matter  but  myself?  " 

"And  what  more  on  earth  did  you  think  I  wanted?" 
she  asked.  "  You're  everything  to  me  and  have  been  ever 
since  I  was  old  enough  to  love  you." 

"  Thank  God  then  —  and  God  forgive  me  for  holding 
off." 

He  blamed  himself,  with  reason  enough,  for  a  morbid 
sensitiveness  that  had  made  them  both  unhappy ;  but  she 
would  not  suffer  him  to  do  so.  She  was  soon  joyous  and 
lifted  him  to  joy. 

"  I  hate  to  go  out  of  your  sight  now,"  he  said.  "  Can 
I  come  in  and  see  your  uncle  to-night?  I'm  fearing  he 
won't  take  this  very  well." 

"  You  needn't  fear  that." 

"  May  I  come  to  supper?  " 

"  Will  you?     How  heavenly  of  you,  Andrew  !  " 

He  saw  her  to  the  entrance  gate  of  "  Colneside  "  pres- 
ently ;  and  if  Margery's  typewriting  called  for  a  gentle 
remonstrance  from  Mr.  Ambrose  when  the  letters  came 
before  him,  there  was  a  reason  for  it. 

Gregory  Mushet  heard  the  news  in  the  dinner  hour  and 
accepted  the  inevitable  with  secret  restrictions.  He  said 
nothing  at  the  time,  however,  and  expressed  pleasure,  but 
not  surprise. 

"  The  silly  man's  found  his  tongue  at  last,  then.  I  sup- 
pose he  couldn't  well  go  to  France  without.  But  I'll  have 
no  marriage  before  he  goes,  Margery." 

"  He  never  suggested  it,  Uncle  Greg;  and  may  he  come 
in  to  supper?  He  won't  be  calm  in  his  mind  till  he  knows 
your  view." 

"  He  heard  my  view  before  he  went  for  a  soldier.  I  like 
the  man,  and  always  bow  to  superior  education,  as  you 


THE  FOPPY  185 

know.  I'm  not  saying  it's  a  lift  up  for  such  a  girl  as  you ; 
but  for  the  family  it  is,  and  my  brother,  Samuel,  would  be 
the  first  to  grant  it,  and  so  would  your  mother,  if  she  was 
ahve.  As  for  the  rest,  we  must  be  hopeful.  He's  had 
such  a  proper  bellyful  of  bad  luck,  that  on  the  law  of 
average,  which  even  this  war  can't  change,  he  ought  to 
run  up  against  a  streak  of  good  fortune." 

"  So  he  ought  then,  you  clever  dear,"  said  Margery, 
thankful  for  this  sanguinary  prophecy. 

"  And  given  good  fortune,"  continued  ^Ir.  INIushet,  "  it 
don't  want  a  particularly  keen  outlook  to  see  him  uplifted. 
We  mustn't  run  on  too  far,  and,  whatever  happens,  you 
don't  run  out  of  '  Fair  View  Villa  ' —  I  warn  j^ou  of  that ; 
but  a  man  like  Hempson  may  rise  in  the  army  till  he's  a 
power  and  a  very  exalted  character.  And  if  it  overtakes 
him,  there  must  be  no  turning  his  back  on  his  wife's  rela- 
tions, or  nothing  of  that." 

"  Could  he.''     If  he  was  a  general,  could  he?  " 

"  He  don't,  whether  he  could  or  not.  And  he  can  come 
to  supper  and  welcome." 

At  the  supper-party  all  went  well.  ]Mr.  Mushet  ad- 
mired and  respected  Andrew.  He  also  regarded  him  as  a 
social  superior.  For  Gregory  had  a  conservative  mind, 
and,  while  vain  enough  in  some  ways,  made  no  pretence  of 
education  or  importance.  After  supper  he  talked  a  good 
deal,  and  finding  that  Andrew  had  no  future  plans,  indi- 
cated his  own  wishes. 

"  It's  to  your  credit  you  don't  want  to  marry  her  before 
you  go,"  said  Gregory.  "  She'd  agree  to  anything,  tlie 
silly  maid ;  but  no.     All  in  good  time,  Mr.  Hempson " 

"  Call  me  Andrew,  INIr.  Mushet." 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you  to  ask  and  I'm  willing,  and  it 
must  be  '  Uncle  Gregory  '  for  you ;  because,  as  I  told 
Madge  this  morning,  you  needn't  think  to  take  her  away 
from  her  relations.     That  we  wouldn't  suffer." 

"  I  should  hope  not." 

"  And  that  stands,  mind  you,  wherever  you  rise  to.     As 


186  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

for  her,  she's  a  very  praiseworthy  girl.  I  say  it  to  3'our 
face,  Margery.  Speaking  generally,  every  man  at  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  would  sooner  marry  a  Mary  than  a 
Martha.  They're  wrong,  of  course,  but  it's  the  weakness 
of  the  average  male  to  put  peace  before  anything,  and  the 
Marthas  never  get  the  credit  that's  due  to  them  in  the 
home.  Their  fine  results  are  took  for  granted,  and  all  the 
needful  fuss  and  splutter  that  go  to  the  results  are 
brought  against  the  poor  women,  as  if  you  could  have  any- 
thing worth  having  in  this  world  without  a  bit  of  fuss  and 
splutter.  But  Madge  is  something  betwixt  and  between: 
she's  got  the  virtues  of  both  and  the  faults  of  neither. 
When  I  say  she  rises  to  this  house,  I've  said  all  that  needs 
to  be  said.  A  Mary  would  be  a  proper  catastrophe  to 
this  house,  and  a  Martha  would  get  over-anxious  and  be  a 
proper  catastrophe  to  me ;  but  I've  trained  up  Madge  to 
steer  a  middle  course,  so  to  speak.  In  fact,  being  what 
she  is,  and  having  to  thank  me  largely  for  what  she  is,  it 
wouldn't  be  fair  to  take  her  away." 

"  I  wouldn't  go  —  I  couldn't,"  vowed  Margery. 

"  After  the  war  will  be  time  enough  to  plan  the  future," 
declared  Andrew. 

"  No,"  answered  Mr.  Mushet.  "  I'm  not  one  of  the 
*  wait  and  see  '  sort  myself.  Take  my  house.  Would  it 
look  like  it  does,  and  be  what  it  is,  if  I'd  waited  to  see.'' 
No,  Andrew,  you  must  live  with  me  after  the  war  if  you 
want  to  live  with  her.  Because  Madge  is  everything  I've 
got  in  the  human  line  and  I  mustn't  be  deprived.  She  may 
be  your  wife,  but  that's  no  reason  why  she  should  give  up 
being  my  niece." 

"  Or  going  on  with  my  work  at  '  Colneside  '  either,"  said 
Margery. 

The  programme  by  no  means  chimed  with  Andrew 
Hempson's  future  intentions ;  but  he  felt  this  an  unfit- 
ting day  for  argument. 

"  So  be  it  then,"  he  said.     "  My  only  thought  is  for  her 


THE  POPPY  187 

happiness,  and  I  know  very  well  she  wouldn't  be  happy 
far  away  from  you." 

This  granted,  Gregory  was  generous. 

"  Thank  you  for  that  word,"  he  answered.  "  It  would 
be  a  great  load  on  my  mind  if  you  hadn't  spoken  it.  Of 
course  it's  a  great  lift  up  for  Madge,  marrying  you;  be- 
cause you  stand  higher  than  her  on  the  spindle  side,  and 
spear  side  too,  and  when  I  say  you  mustn't  come  between 
her  and  her  relations,  I  don't  mean  you  marry  her  rela- 
tions.    We're  a  proud  people." 

"  I  judge  every  man  by  himself,  Mr.  INIushet,  and  I 
judge  myself  not  worthy  to  tie  Margery's  shoe-string." 

"  That's  a  figure  of  speech  you'll  get  over.  And  if 
glory  comes  your  wa}',  you  must  rise  to  it.  And  I  can 
promise  you  she  will  do  the  same.  And  this  is  your  home 
after  you  marry.  That's  understood.  And  I  shan't  be 
unworthy  of  you,  no  matter  what  happens,  because,  in  my 
steadfast  way,  I'm  a  credit  to  the  country.  If  you  came 
home  with  a  V.C.  to-morrow  week,  this  house  would  still  be 
this  house  and  well  equal  to  3^ou." 

Andrew  admitted  all  these  truths.  Then  he  departed 
with  Margery  to  his  mother,  and  the  mere  fact  of  missing 
Margery  during  the  hour  before  bedtime,  when  she  was 
accustomed  to  sit  and  listen  to  him  and  bring  him  his 
"  night-cap,"  convinced  INIr.  Mushet  how  wise  he  had  been 
to  make  such  drastic  conditions.  He  was  well  aware  that 
they  were  most  unusual.  "  To  strike  while  the  iron  was 
hot  was  the  only  thing  to  do,"  he  thought.  "  If  I'd  waited 
till  they'd  got  used  to  the  change  and  had  time  to  plan 
their  future,  it  would  have  been  too  late  and  they'd  have 
resisted  me.     Now  they  can't." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE    PROBLEM    OF    THE    PICTURE 

Marriage  did  not  cloud  the  vision  that  Aveline  and  Peter 
had  enjoyed  of  each  other;  no  shadow  dimmed  the  horizon 
of  their  united  days,  save  the  supreme  shadow  that  threat- 
ened all.  Then,  from  outside,  intruded  trivial  incidents 
that  puzzled  Peter,  for  it  seemed  not  easy  to  understand 
why  he  and  his  wife  should  feel  so  differently  to  trifles. 
Upon  the  subject  of  the  first  problem  they  heartily  agreed. 
They  were  asked  to  do  something  that  both  disliked,  but  it 
happened  that  she  who  asked  the  favour  might  justly  hope 
to  see  it  granted.  It  was  not  easy  to  refuse  her,  and  while 
Aveline  held  out  the  longer,  she  reluctantly  agreed  at  last. 
Upon  the  question  of  the  second  problem,  however,  they 
saw  with  different  eyes. 

The  first  petition  had  to  do  with  a  photograph;  while 
the  second  was  not  a  favour  begged,  but  a  commission 
offered. 

Nelly  Chaffe  continued  her  drawing  lessons  with  Mrs. 
Mistley,  and  while  making  no  progress  whatever,  so  much 
enjoyed  the  society  of  her  new  friend,  now  out  of  doors 
and  now  in  the  tiny  studio  at  Aveline's  new  home,  that  she 
persisted  in  wasting  certain  hours  weekly,  though  her 
mistress  assured  her  it  was  nonsense  to  continue. 

"  You'd  be  far  better  employed  cutting  those  cabbages, 
or  digging  them  up,  or  planting  fresh  ones,  than  trying  to 
paint  them,"  she  said  on  an  occasion  of  open-air  sketch- 
ing. 

But  Nelly  persisted,  and  declared  that  her  pleasantest 
hours  were  those  spent  in  the  drawing  lessons. 

Then  came  a  day  when  Helena  called  at  the  studio  of  her 

188 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  PICTURE         189 

protegee's  new  home  to  drive  Nelly  back  to  Mersea,  when 
her  task  was  done.  Tea  awaited  her,  and  she  was  full  of 
admiration  for  the  photograph  already  mentioned.  It 
had  been  taken  at  her  wish  —  nay  her  command,  and  rep- 
resented Peter  Mistley  and  his  bride. 

And  now  Helena  drank  tea  and  talked  and  praised  the 
photograph. 

"  It's  just  caught  that  particular  loveliness  you  had  in 
church  on  your  wedding  day,"  she  said.  "  It's  heavenl}-, 
even  without  the  colour,  and  I've  just  taken  it  to  the 
photographer  —  why,  d'you  think  ?  To  have  an  enlarge- 
ment, half  life-size,  for  my  own  little  sacred  room  —  m^^ 
boudoir.  Then  I  shall  feel  you're  there.  I  don't  want 
your  Peter  in  my  boudoir,  however.  You'll  still  sit  beside 
him  in  a  silver  frame  in  the  drawing-room ;  but  in  my  own 
sacred  room  you'll  be  all  alone  —  just  your  lovely  self." 

Helena  was  going  to  be  photographed. 

"  They  want  me  for  an  illustrated  paper  in  connection 
with  my  Red  Cross  work.  My  first  instinct  was  to  refuse ; 
but  Parkyn  seemed  pleased,  and  he  reminded  me  that  I 
hadn't  been  taken  for  a  year ;  so  it's  to  happen  next  ^Ion- 
day  at  twelve  o'clock.  And  now  for  my  greatest  piece  of 
news :     I've  got  a  commission  for  you." 

"  How  much  too  good  you  are  to  me  alwa^'s,  always, 
Helena,"  cried  Aveline. 

"  It's  nothing  —  quite  tiny,  hardly  worth  mentioning ; 
but  it  will  go  into  the  world  and  be  seen  by  thousands  of 
people,  that's  the  advantage  of  it.  In  fact,  Parkyn  has 
decided  on  a  coloured  picture  for  the  herbaceous  catalogue 
—  the  Michaelmas  daisies ;  and  I've  got  him  to  let  you 
do  it." 

The  artist  remained  silent  and  her  animation  died  away. 
She  was  reflecting,  and  wholly  unconscious  of  the  expres- 
sion on  her  face. 

"  You're  not  pleased,"  said  Helena. 

Aveline  came  to  herself. 

"  Don't  think  that.     I'd  love  to  do  it.     There's  so  little 


190  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

I  can  do  for  such  kind  friends.  But  —  but  —  he  couldn't 
possibly  like  what  I  should  do  —  in  fact  my  work  doesn't 
appeal  to  him." 

"  He's  getting  most  understanding  about  pictures  — 
far  more  so  than  you  imagine.  The  Michaelmas  daisies, 
when  they're  all  out  together  —  an  acre  of  them  —  are  a 
joy,  and  just  a  thing  you'll  do  to  perfection." 

"  I  should  disappoint  him  horribly  —  and  perhaps  you, 
too.     I'm  an  absolute  duffer  at  flowers." 

"  You're  not,  Aveline !  "  cried  Nelly,  and  she  went  to  a 
portfolio,  before  the  other  could  prevent  her,  and  pro- 
duced the  drawing  of  Emma  Darcy  and  the  torch  lilies. 

It  was  one  of  the  painter's  successes.  Before  a  flaming 
background  of  scarlet  and  orange  flowers,  spiring  aloft 
above  a  green  tangle  of  their  foliage,  appeared  Emma  look- 
ing out  upon  the  spectator.  The  likeness  was  happy  and 
a  little  flattered.  Emma's  ruined  beauty  had  not  wholly 
vanished,  and  there  was  pathos  in  the  picture,  though  in 
her  hand  the  vagrant  held  her  pipe. 

JMrs.  Ambrose,  who  had  not  seen  the  work,  was  consider- 
ably moved  by  contemplation  of  it.  Her  lips  fell  apart 
and  she  stared  with  genuine  interest.  For  a  moment  she 
ceased  to  be  the  histrionic  Helena. 

"  Good  Lord !  How  like !  "  she  said.  "  Poor  wretch : 
her  life  might  have  been  so  different.  It's  horribly  sad, 
though.  Take  it  away,  Nelly.  You've  given  me  the 
creeps." 

"  I  wasn't  going  to  show  it  to  you,"  said  Aveline. 

"  I  forgot,"  said  Miss  Chaffe.     "  Forgive  me,  Helena." 

Their  solicitation  pleased  Mrs.  Ambrose. 

"  You  girls  can't  possibly  know  what  this  unfortunate 
aff*air  means  to  a  proud  woman,"  she  said.  "  It  is  the 
skeleton  in  my  husband's  cupboard  —  an  everlasting  out- 
rage, so  to  say." 

"  It  won't  be  everlasting,"  said  Aveline.  "  Poor  Wil- 
liam is  killing  himself  as  fast  as  he  can." 

"  Really,  one  can't  be  very  sorry  since  he  refuses  every 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  PICTURE         191 

rational  offer.  He'd  have  to  confess,  if  he  told  the  truth, 
that  I  have  been  kind  and  generous  —  as  much  so  as  I 
dared.  But  it's  a  great  disgrace,  and  Parkyn  is  wonder- 
fully patient  and  long-suffering.  Don't  talk  about  it  — 
never  talk  about  it.  Nobody  can  do  anything,  I'm 
afraid." 

"  He's  so  clever  by  nature,"  said  Aveline,  thankful  that 
the  subject  had  drifted  away  from  the  Micliaclmas  daisies. 
"  I've  had  a  long  talk  with  him  once  or  twice,  and  he's 
well  worth  listening  to  when  he's  sober." 

"  Parkyn  says  he  was  a  wonderful  boy ;  but  always  in- 
surgent and  impossible.  Great  natural  gifts  poisoned  by 
an  obstinate  will  and  a  hatred  of  all  those  beautiful  prin- 
ciples that  make  civilised  society  what  it  is." 

"  If  he'd  only  had  ambition." 

"  He  never  had  —  except  the  ambition  to  be  unlike 
everybody  else.  He  broke  his  mother's  heart,  3'et  he 
always  puts  primroses  on  her  grave  once  a  year." 

"  He's  a  very  kindly  man  really,"  said  Aveline. 

"  I  hope  he  is,"  answered  Helena  — "  for  Emma's  sake," 
she  added. 

"  He  thinks  the  world  of  Emma,  and  she,  the  world  of 
him." 

This  grave  matter  subdued  Mrs.  Ambrose  entirelj'  and 
made  her  forget  her  friend's  commission.  Aveline  was 
glad  that  the  subject  did  not  arise  again  during  her  visit 
and  believed,  when  Nelly  and  the  elder  had  departed,  that 
Helena  understood  she  did  not  wish  to  paint  the  picture. 

But,  unfortunately  for  her,  the  conmiission  was  not  done 
with,  for  Peter  had  also  heard  the  news  from  Mr.  Ambrose 
himself  at  "  Colneside,"  and  when  he  came  home,  told  her 
that  he  brought  a  surprise.  Mr.  Ambrose  had  mentioned 
the  proposed  picture  to  him  and  Peter  was  mildly  pleased. 

"  It  might  mean  the  beginning  of  some  useful  and  regu- 
lar work,"  he  said.     "  Of  course,  it's  child's  play  to  vou." 

He  dwelt  on  the  value  of  the  advertisement,  and  Aveline 
found  it  quite  impossible  to  give  any  adequate  reason  why 


1»2  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

she  should  dedine  the  work.  DecKne  she  did,  however, 
much  to  her  husband's  astonishment. 

"  Out  of  the  question,"  she  said.  "  Couldn't  do  it  his 
way  and  he  wouldn't  take  it  if  I  did  it  in  mine." 

"  Of  course,  do  it  your  way  —  that's  the  point.  Your 
way  would  arrest  and  challenge.  If  it  is  done  in  the  old, 
conventional  style,  like  every  other  coloured  catalogue, 
nobody  would  look  at  it  twice." 

"  I  don't  feel  like  it.  I'm  rather  tired  of  painting 
flowers :  it  spoils  you  for  more  important  things." 

"  Well,  you'll  change  your  mind  when  you  see  the 
Michaelmas  daisies,"  he  said ;  but  she  did  not  wish  to  leave 
the  matter  doubtful,  or  have  the  commission  hanging  over 
her.      She  tried  another  argument. 

"  I'm  sorry,  in  a  way,  you  don't  feel  like  I  do,  Peter," 
she  said. 

"  What  objection  can  you  have,  my  precious  girl.''  " 

"  Well,"  she  said.  "  Isn't  it  playing  it  rather  low 
down.f*  I  mean  to  illustrate  gardeners'  catalogues.  Of 
course,  I  may  never  do  any  good,  but  now  we're  married 
and  I  can  live,  I  should  like  in  my  small  way  to  aim  just  as 
high  as  you  do." 

"  Well,  you  are.  You're  going  to  send  some  pictures  to 
London,  and  I'm  sure  the  autumn  shows  will  hang  them. 
And  in  these  days,  when  people  aren't  buying  pictures, 
you  may  be  certain  that  artists  don't  mind  painting  for 
reproduction.  You'll  do  an  interesting  thing,  and  thou- 
sands of  people  will  see  it.  You  don't  value  your  luck,  my 
lovely  girl." 

She  knew  all  this  without  his  telling  her,  and  secretly 
blamed  herself  for  advancing  so  feeble  an  excuse. 

"  Yes,  of  course,  that's  true,"  she  admitted ;  "  but  some- 
how I  turn  against  it.     I  can't  tell  you  why ;  but  I  do." 

"  Well,  I  wish  it,  Aveline." 

"  I  know  you  do,  and  if  anything  could  make  me  want 
to  paint  them,  it  would  be  that.  Don't  talk  about  it  any 
more,  my  dearest  —  not  for  the  present." 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  THE  PICTURE         193 

Peter,  of  course,  dropped  the  commission,  and  for  the 
rest  of  that  day  neither  again  alluded  to  it.  At  break- 
fast next  morning,  however,  he  touched  the  subject  at  an 
angle,  but  in  such  a  manner  as  to  leave  her  free  to  speak 
of  it  or  not  as  she  pleased. 

She  ignored  it. 

Thus  it  happened.  He  asked  if  she  could  give  him  an 
hour  after  noon  and  she  gladly  agreed. 

"  I  want  you  in  the  herbaceous  garden,"  he  said.  "  I've 
got  a  big  white  scheme  and  the  whites  are  easy ;  but  I 
should  like  you  to  see  what's  doing  and  tell  me  the  colours 
to  go  with  it.  So  do  come.  We  haven't  had  a  prowl  in 
'  Colneside  '  for  ages." 

"  Of  course  I'll  come." 

"  I  used  to  love  flowers  for  themselves,"  he  said  ten- 
derly. "  Now  I  love  them  for  you.  Everytliing  beautiful 
and  precious  that  makes  me  long,  or  makes  me  content,  or 
feel  glad  one  way  or  another  —  everything  worth  while 
means  you." 

She  rose,  put  her  arms  round  him  and  kissed  him. 

"  It's  too  much  —  it's  too  great  —  a  thousand  times  too 
great  —  all  you  feel  for  me.  The  least  flower  is  more 
beautiful  and  precious  than  I  am.  There  are  millions  of 
things  more  beautiful  and  precious  in  the  world  than  the 
most  beautiful,  precious  woman  who  ever  was  born." 

"  Bar  one.  And  then  we'U  stroll  over  and  see  the  gladi- 
olus and  Michaelmas  daisies.  This  sun  will  fetch  them 
along.  There's  a  dream  of  beauty  waiting  for  you  —  the 
purple  gladiolus  and  the  hybrids  of  Primulinus,  that 
lemon-coloured,  hooded  species  from  America.  They  are 
like  flames  of  clear  fire.  *  Tired  of  flower  painting!' 
Wait  till  you  have  a  great  sheaf  of  those  in  one  of  your 
big  terra-cotta  jars,  or  that  sea-green,  Morocco  glass 
Miss  ChafFe  gave  you." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  showed  by  a  contraction  of 
her  eyes  and  a  momentary  hardening  of  her  lips  tliat  he 
pained  her,  and  that  she  understood  the  allusion. 


1&4  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

She  asked  him  if  he  would  have  some  more  coffee,  and 
he  shook  his  head. 

*'  It  goes  well,  as  far  as  we  duffers  at  home  can  judge 
from  newspapers  —  the  war,  I  mean,"  he  said. 

"  I  hope  so  indeed.  I'll  be  in  the  herbaceous  garden  at 
half-past  twelve." 

He  went  to  his  work,  and  when  he  had  gone,  Aveline 
gave  way  to  misery.  Indeed,  she  wept  a  little.  Then,  im- 
patient with  herself,  she  went  to  her  studio  and  put  some 
finishing  touches  to  Emma  and  the  torch  lilies.  Work 
cheered  her,  and  at  midday  she  set  off  cheerfully  enough  to 
the  gardens. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A    FLOWER    PIECE 

The  scene  was  silvery,  shot  to  brightness  where  the  sun 
turned  beyond  the  zenith,  and  the  rows  of  Lombardy  pop- 
lars at  water's  edge  below  "  Colneside  "  held  bravely  to 
their  fading  green.  In  widening  perspective  to  the  be- 
holder stretched  the  great  herbaceous  wealth  of  the  nurs- 
ery, still  full  of  colour  splendours ;  and  here  Aveline  met 
Peter  beneath  a  walnut  tree. 

They  started  into  the  maze  of  flower-light,  its  masses 
disposed  in  parallel  lines  due  north  and  south. 

Far  off,  towards  Colchester  and  Colne,  the  gardens 
misted  into  little  clouds  of  brightness  set  under  the  trees, 
but  as  they  approached,  the  colours  gained  in  brilliance 
and  grew  distinct  in  masses  of  azure  and  scarlet,  purple 
and  orange,  and  creamy  white.  Beside  them  shone  ame- 
thystyne  globe  thistles  and  spread  a  patch  of,  tall  speed- 
wells, blue  as  southern  seas.  Then  crimson  pentstemons 
massed  against  a  bed  of  sparkling  golden  coreopsis  and 
these  were  followed  by  Grecian  violets,  in  a  sheet  of  velvet, 
spangled  with  butterflies  and  murmuring  with  bees.  Next 
opened  a  drift  of  lavenders  and  white  spiderworts,  flax  of 
bright  king's  yellow,  and  another  speedwell,  that  lifted 
tender,  sky-blue  wands  three  feet  high  above  its  grey  foli- 
age. Seen  closely  its  tiny  amber  anthers  gave  each  blos- 
som a  note  of  distinction ;  and,  indeed,  every  flower  of  these 
gay  legions  revealed  wonders  and  subtle  personal  charms 
unshared  by  any  other  growing  thing.  Each,  while  lost  in 
the  blaze,  enjoyed  its  own  personal  beauty.  They  were 
as  an  artist's  painting,  wherein  the  wide  passages  of  colour 
sweetly  laid  are  seen  at  a  glance,  yet  at  closer  studj'  reveal 

195 


196  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

for  the  connoisseur  many  a  magic  and  delicate  delight  to 
reward  intimate  search.  Thus  the  giant  sea  lavenders  dis- 
played one  reigning  hue  of  a  pale  opal  —  milky  and  shot 
with  colour;  but  examined,  the  tone  resolved  into  unnum- 
bered points  of  mingled  pink  and  pure  white,  where  the 
sterile  and  fertile  blossoms  hung  closely  together  over  the 
intricate  pattern  of  the  stems.  Nor  was  this  all  to  note, 
for  while  the  greater  blossoms  in  each  mass  were  pure  pink, 
each  of  the  lesser  white  stars  held  a  drop  of  purple  in  the 
heart  of  its  tiny  cup.  Of  all  these  mingled  hues  was  the 
great  picture  painted,  and  full  fifty  million  separate  buds 
had  broken  to  create  the  whole. 

A  sky-blue  scabious  with  ragged  petals  swayed  joyfully 
beside  these  great  sea  lavenders.  Then  came  spaces 
whence  the  flowers  had  fled,  and  stretched  many  plats  of 
resting  green.  Elsewhere  a  plant  or  two,  or  a  group  of 
plants  ofl'ered  little  mosaics  in  the  greater  pattern  of  the 
whole. 

Aveline  helped  Peter  with  his  choice,  and  finding  her 
happy  again,  he  was  about  to  suggest  a  visit  to  the 
Michaelmas  daisies,  when  Parkyn  Ambrose  himself  sud- 
denly appeared.  He  walked  through  the  gardens  on  his 
way  to  the  office. 

"  My  wife  is  helping  me  with  the  white  garden  for 
Shropshire,"  said  Peter. 

"  And  I  hope  soon  to  hear  that  she  will  be  busy  with  the 
star  asters.  Bultitude  tells  me  they  will  be  in  perfection 
next  week.  I  am  glad  to  have  met  you,  Mrs.  Mistley,  be- 
cause I  can  indicate  a  little  what  I  want.  My  pui^pose  is 
an  attractive  colour  scheme  to  indicate  to  the  public  how 
beautiful  these  asters  are  in  the  mass.  Those  who  visit 
them  understand  and  realise  that  only  seen  in  abundance 
can  we  appreciate  their  full  splendour  and  possibilities. 
Thus  we  create  a  laudable  inclination  to  purchase  ten 
plants  instead  of  one.  And  I  want  you  not  to  be  content 
with  a  mere  beautiful  arrangement  of  colour  —  which  you 
may  get  in  a  wall  paper  or  a  carpet  —  but  to  paint  the 


A  FLOWER  PIECE  197 

asters,  and  show  they  are  asters  so  completely  that  an 
expert  would  be  able  to  name  the  sorts." 

To  Peter's  astonishment  Aveline  quietly  nodded  and 
made  no  declaration  of  refusal. 

"  I  feel  sure  your  skill  will  enable  you  to  do  what  I 
want,  and  yet  produce  a  work  of  excellent  art.  Don't  you 
think  so  ?  "  asked  the  great  nurserj'man. 

It  appeared  that  Aveline  did.  Her  husband  could 
hardly  believe  his  ears. 

"  I  quite  understand  what  you  want,  Mr.  Ambrose,"  she 
said,  "  and  if  I  can  do  it,  I  will  do  it.  I'll  paint  the  flowers 
as  gardening  people  see  them." 

He  beamed. 

"  Do,  and  then  you  will  make  a  very  beautiful  picture. 
The  more  closely  your  painting  resembles  them,  the  better 
painting  will  it  be." 

When  he  was  gone,  Peter  waited  for  Aveline  to  speak, 
but  she  did  not,  so  he  felt  called  upon  to  do  so. 

"  Wonders  never  cease,"  he  said.  "  ^\Tiat  on  earth  did 
Ambrose  say  to  make  3'ou  change  your  mind.'*  " 

"  I'd  decided  already,"  she  declared.  "  I  was  going  to 
tell  you.  I  really  don't  know,  looking  back,  why  I  made 
any  fuss.  And  I  dare  say  the  result  will  be  something 
better  than  I've  ever  done  before." 

"  What  a  humbug  you  are !  " 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment ;  then  she  admitted  it. 

"  Yes  —  colossal." 

"  Come  and  see  the  gladiolus  field.  There  are  a  hun- 
dred gorgeous,  new  Americans  just  out.  I'll  leave  you 
there." 

They  started;  but  they  did  not  reach  their  destination, 
for  Gregory  Musliet  was  at  work  in  the  way,  and  from  him 
Aveline  heard  the  news  of  Margery's  engagement. 

"  Then  I  can't  go  to  the  gladiolus  field,  or  anywhere 
else  till  I've  seen  her,"  said  Aveline. 

She  hastened  off  with  Peter,  and  when  he  went  to  the 
studio  she  sought  Margery  in  the  office. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ON    PEEWIT    ISLAND 

Thomas  Darcy  was  called  upon  to  endure  another  visita- 
tion from  his  sister  and  the  errant  William.  They  de- 
scended upon  him  during  a  wet  night,  and  shattered  the 
peace  of  his  bachelor  abode  once  more. 

But  on  this  epiphany  of  the  usual  bedraggled  pair, 
Thomas  had  the  surprise  of  his  life ;  for  while  they  shared 
his  supper,  Emma  related  a  strange  thing. 

"  Billy's  going  to  do  a  bit  of  work,"  she  said.  "  It's 
come  over  him  that  a  bit  of  healthy  work  would  set  him  up 
before  the  winter." 

"  Goodstruth  !     Him  work  ?  " 

"  I'm  going  to  touch  it,"  confessed  William,  "  not  be- 
cause it  is  work,  but  because  it's  a  change ;  and  if  I  can 
harden  up  a  bit  before  winter  it  wiU  be  a  good  thing  for 
me." 

"  I  wanted  him  to  have  his  hair  cut  and  go  looking 
tidy,"  said  Emma.     "  But  he  won't  do  that." 

"Go  where?"  asked  Darcy,  "You  don't  tell  me  he's 
got  work  for  the  asking. ^^  The  war  haven't  brought  us  to 
him  yet.''  " 

"  I'm  going  culling  and  cleaning  and  packing  oysters 
for  the  Company,"  explained  William.  "  I'm  a  freeman 
of  Brittlesea,  and  they're  terrible  short  of  hands,  as  you 
know,  Thomas,  and,  in  a  word,  the  under  manager  says 
I  may  go  to  the  work.  It's  not  new  work  to  me  for  that 
matter." 

"  We  all  know  that ;  and  we  know  what  happened  last 
time  you  took  a  hand." 

"  The  oysters  would  get  into  my  food  basket,"  admitted 

198 


ON  PEEWIT  ISLAND  199 

William.  "  The  wickedness  of  enemies,  no  doubt.  But 
that  was  three  3'ears  ago." 

"  Twice  you  were  warned,  and  you'll  be  a  freeman  no 
more  if  it  happens  again." 

"  The  under  manager's  new  since  then,"  explained 
Emma,  "  and  he  didn't  know  about  the  past." 

"  I  go  purely  for  health,"  explained  William.  "  And  if 
it  suits  me,  I  shall  continue  in  uprightness ;  and  if  not,  I 
shan't.  I  offered  at  the  will  of  God,  and  the  under  mana- 
ger, knowing  me  not,  took  me.  So  on  IMonday  next  I  shall 
be  at  the  Hard  with  the  rest,  half  after  five  o'clock.  As  to 
oysters,  for  the  first  offence  they  caution  you,  for  the 
second  they  rub  it  in,  and  for  the  third  you  lose  the  right 
to  be  a  freeman.  I  stopped  at  the  second ;  but  that's  all 
buried  in  the  past,  and  I  shall  consider  I've  got  my  three 
lives  again." 

"  Don't,"  said  Emma.  "  You're  very  well  known,  and 
nobody  will  have  a  kind  word  for  you  if  you're  catched 
out  with  oysters." 

"  Cleaning  oysters  is  hard  work,  as  I  well  remember," 
continued  William,  "  but  there's  fine  air  in  Peewit  Island 
and  the  saltings  suit  me." 

"  I  wish  I  could  go,"  said  Emma ;  "  but  they  wouldn't 
suffer  women  to  do  it." 

"  They  may  come  to  it,"  replied  her  brother.  "  They'll 
be  wanting  women  on  the  land  all  through  Essex  next 
spring,  if  not  sooner.  A  time's  coming  when  j'ou  could 
make  twentv  shillings  a  week  without  a  doubt,  Emma." 

"  Oo !  "  cried  she.     "  Where,  Tom.?  " 

"  You  dare !  "  said  Billy.  "  You  dare  seek  work  and 
I'll  turn  the  house  out  of  windows.  Hell !  The  pco])lc 
will  be  saying  we're  a  worthy,  hard-working  couple  and 
ought  to  be  encouraged." 

Three  days  later  Billy  started  to  work,  and  stood  with 
a  crowd  of  others  on  Brightlingsca  Hard  in  a  gi'oy  October 
dawn.     They  chaffed  him,  and  a  few  resented  his  presence, 


200  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

but  William's  tongue  was  more  than  a  match  for  most  of 
the  freemen.  A  varied  company  set  forth  in  the  boats. 
Some  were  working,  long-shore  folk ;  some,  aged  veterans 
of  fourscore;  some,  smart  middle-aged  mariners,  prosper- 
ous and  well-to-do.  These  lent  a  hand  in  the  business  of 
culling  and  packing  for  the  fishery  from  no  necessity  to 
earn  money,  but  in  their  capacity  of  freemen  of  the  port, 
all  interested  in  the  Colne  Fishery. 

The  open  boats  were  made  fast  to  the  Peewit,  which 
waited  for  them  with  steam  up.  Then  she  started  for  the 
packing  shed  in  Pyefleet  Creek. 

The  crew  of  the  Peewit  marked  William  Ambrose  and 
discussed  him. 

Darcy  was  asked  what  it  meant,  and  he  told  the  skipper 
all  that  he  knew.     Mr.  Rebow  protested. 

"  Surely  once  bit  twice  shy,"  he  said.  "  Don't  they 
remember  what  happened  last  time  the  rip  had  a  job  cull- 
ing? " 

"  What  does  he  know  about  culling,  anyway  ?  "  asked 
Samuel  Mushet  from  the  engine-room  door.  "  It's  skilled 
work,  and  a  good  culler's  born,  not  made.  Uneven  culls 
is  the  plague  of  the  fish  shops." 

"  Old  Tell-yer-fer-why  "  laughed. 

*'  He  can  cull,  Samuel !  When  he  was  caught  out  three 
years  ago,  only  the  first-class  natives  were  found  in  his 
basket." 

"  They'll  set  him  at  cleaning,  I  expect,"  said  Tom 
Darcy ;  and  he  was  right,  for  when  the  boats  came  along- 
side Peewit  Island  and  the  workers  tumbled  ashore,  Billy 
was  put  to  work  at  the  business  of  scraping  and  chopping 
from  the  oysters  the  growths  of  sessile  barnacle,  seaweed, 
spawn,  "  pock,"  and  husk  of  tingles'  eggs  that  encrusted 
them. 

The  packing  sheds  were  transformed  from  the  gay  day 
of  the  "  Opening."  The  flags  and  the  tables  were  gone. 
Now  mounds  of  oysters  and  piles  of  barrels  filled  the 
sheds.     In  the  outer  chamber,  on  raised  stages  running 


ON  PEEWIT  ISLAND  201 

round  it,  men  sat  or  knelt  in  rows  before  and  behind  the 
banks  of  shells,  cleaning  and  culling;  while  within,  the 
packing  proceeded,  and  barrel  after  barrel,  sack  after 
sack,  was  filled  and  fastened  for  market.  The  Peewit 
presently  took  a  cargo  and  returned  to  Brightlingsea. 
Then  she  picked  up  a  trawling  ketch  or  two  working 
over  the  creek,  and  brought  their  catches  to  the  packing 
house. 

The  workers  hammered  away  and  cleansed  the  shells, 
while  the  oysters  were  then  graded,  or  culled,  to  their  dif- 
ferent sizes.  From  the  mounds  before  them  trained  and 
quick-eyed  men  sorted  first  the  "  royals,"  and  then,  from 
dwindling  piles,  selected  the  "  seconds  "  and  the  "  thirds." 
In  each  mass  also  occurred  a  small  proportion  of  "  crip- 
ples," or  "  roughs  " —  good  oysters,  but  malformed,  or 
broken-heeled  in  course  of  their  growth.  Such  do  not 
tempt  the  fishmonger,  but  are  sold  cheaply  to  the  workers, 
or  used  for  sauce. 

Here  arose  a  babel  of  sounds  —  the  eternal  chink  of 
the  cultack,  the  slither  of  the  shells  in  the  sorters'  hands, 
the  hammering  of  the  coopers,  fitting  hoops  or  heads  to  the 
oyster  barrels,  and  the  dull  thunder  of  the  packers,  who 
continually  banged  their  barrels  on  the  hollow  floor  to 
settle  the  oysters  within  them.  The  skilled  packers  get 
their  ware  into  remarkably  small  space,  and  a  barrel  of 
six  or  seven  hundred  "  royals  "  was  but  a  little  affair. 
Gruff  voices  and  slow  laughter  ran  through  the  medley  of 
sound,  and  through  the  sheds  permeated  a  reek  and  salty 
smell  of  weed  and  brine.  Overhead,  wooden  mallets 
echoed  in  an  upper  chamber,  where  carpenters  worked. 
Under  the  rafters  stretched  a  great  room,  like  a  sail  loft, 
and  within  it  thousands  of  barrels  waited  the  needs  of 
the  packers.  Every  sort  of  barrel  was  there,  from  the 
little  toy  that  would  hold  fifty  03'sters,  to  the  receptacle 
for  a  thousand ;  from  pail-shaped  Belgian  "  kits "  to 
American  iron-hooped  barrels,  that  told  the  tale  of  the 
war.     For  they  had  come  to  England  full  of  horseshoes, 


202  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

and  that  duty  done,  were  now  secured  hy  the  fisheries  for 
another  freight. 

William  worked  for  an  hour  or  two,  then  he  cut  his 
thumb  with  a  barnacle  and  stopped.  Presently  he  pro- 
ceeded again  until  the  dinner  hour,  when  he  ate  and  drank 
and  smoked  with  the  rest.  Emma  had  stored  his  basket 
with  ample  food ;  but  he  gave  most  of  it  to  others,  and 
was  contented  with  his  pipe  and  a  full  bottle. 

The  day  passed  and  anon  full  barrels,  large  and  small, 
were  rowed  to  the  Peewit.  Then  the  sheds  were  washed 
down  and  flooded  with  sea  water,  and  the  oysters  that 
remained  were  piled  into  net  baskets  and  dropped  in  the 
pits  until  next  day.  Soon  the  steamer  went  south  with 
her  cargo  piled  aboard  and  the  workers  in  the  boats 
astern.  On  the  island  remained  only  a  member  of  the 
river  police,  his  black  figure  standing  stark  in  the  fading 
light. 

The  saltings  had  grown  sere  and  grey  now,  and  their 
flowers  were  dead ;  but  flashes  and  streaks  of  colour  per- 
sisted, for  the  glassworts  were  crimson  and  purple.  No 
sunshine  had  broken  through  that  still,  grey  day. 

Some  men  chaffed  William  and  asked  him  how  he  liked 
the  feel  of  work ;  but  he  was  very  silent,  and  created,  as 
he  well  knew  how  to  do  on  occasion,  a  gulf  between  himself 
and  lesser  minds.  He  smoked  and  remained  abstracted 
until  the  landing ;  then  he  came  ashore,  entered  the  nearest 
inn  and  stopped  there,  until  Emma,  guessing  his  place, 
entered  and  took  him  home. 

She  was  anxious  to  learn  what  he  had  made  of  it. 

"  What  I  didn't  make  of  it  was  '  duty,'  "  said  William. 
"  I  told  the  chaps  they  mustn't  for  a  moment  fancy  I  was 
there  to  do  my  duty,  or  any  infernal  trash  like  that.  I 
said  '  the  man  who  does  his  duty  is  no  friend  of  mine.' 
Then  I  cut  my  hand  on  a  damned  barnacle ;  and  if  it 
gathers  and  I  get  blood  poisoning  and  die,  you  ought  to 
have  a  pension." 

"  It  won't,"  said  Emma ;  "  it's  nothing  at  all." 


ON  PEEWIT  ISLAND  203 

"  You  never  know.  Mj  blood's  half  whisky.  Wonder- 
ful oysters  this  year.  A  week  of  it  will  do  me  good.  But 
a  week's  likely  to  be  enough." 

Thomas  Darcy  from  the  Peewit  overtook  them. 

"  Well,  and  how  did  you  get  on,  William?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  blameless  life,  Tom.  There's  not  much  to  choose 
between  the  oysters  and  the  Brittlesea  freemen  that  I  can 
see.  Poor  fellows  —  the  freemen,  I  mean.  To  see  them 
so  busy  and  so  cheerful  and  so  content  in  their  humble, 
messy  calling:  it  very  near  brings  tears  to  the  eyes." 

"  That's  funny,"  answered  Darcy,  "  for  a  few  of  the 
better  chaps  spoke  to  me  not  ten  minutes  ago,  and  they 
said  that  to  see  the  brother  of  Parkyn  Ambrose  sitting 
there  cleaning  oyster  shells,  and  broke  down  in  clothes  and 
mind  and  body,  very  near  brought  tears  to  their  eyes, 
too." 

"  They  know  not  what  they  say.  I  tell  you,  Thomas, 
that  oysters  are  wiser  far  than  men ;  for  they  never  quar- 
rel, nor  war  upon  each  other,  nor  fill  their  world  with 
blood  and  tears,  nor  envy  their  neighbours'  landmark,  nor 
make  a  hell  of  the  decent  place  in  which  they  live.  'Twas 
no  God,  Thomas,  but  a  cunning  devil  that  let  life  rise  to 
conscious  existence  and  cover  itself  with  shame  for  ever- 
more." 

That  night  William  Ambrose,  after  being  turned  out  of 
the  "  King's  Head  "  at  closing  time,  succeeded  in  becom- 
ing very  drunk  elsewhere,  and  next  morning  he  was  not 
on  the  Hard  when  the  freemen  of  Brightlingsea  set  out  to 
their  labours. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE    STAR    ASTERS 

Helena  Ambrose  and  Geoffrey  Seabrook  belonged  to 
that  race  of  spirits  who  let  love  throw  no  dust  in  their 
eyes,  but  preserve  a  long  view  and  order  their  transports 
with  circumspection.  Not  for  them  would  the  world  ever 
be  well  lost.  Their  passion  was  perfectly  genuine,  and 
they  believed  it  would  never  perish ;  but  that  it  might  be 
the  more  permanent,  they  made  it  a  matter  of  business. 

"  We  needn't  ruin  our  lives  because  we  love  each  other," 
Helena  had  said  at  an  early  stage  of  the  romance,  and 
Seabrook  felt  the  profoundest  respect  for  that  senti- 
ment. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  answered ;  "  we  must  build  upon 
the  present  foundations.  Misery  and  ostracism  wouldn't 
alter  what  we  feel  for  each  other;  but  I  don't  mean  the 
woman  I  adore  to  be  miserable  and  ostracised,  and  I  cer- 
tainly don't  wish  to  be  myself.  We've  had  the  enormous 
luck  to  meet  each  other,  and  there  are  no  complications 
but  the  accident  of  you  being  married  to  a  very  sensible 
sort  of  man." 

So  things  stood,  and  they  decided  that  they  were  not 
sordid,  but  merely  practical.  Moreover,  from  the  man's 
point  of  view  the  secrecy  and  intrigue  added  much  to  the 
salt  of  the  situation,  and  though  such  things  did  not 
appeal  with  the  same  force  to  Helena,  she  recognised  the 
need.  But  now  a  complication  little  anticipated  began  to 
threaten  the  draughtsman.  Conscription  was  in  the  air, 
and  the  single  man  would  soon  be  directed  to  attest. 

Geoffrey  had  seen  a  little  of  Helena  recently,  for  she 
arranged  a  concert  for  the  Belgian  Refugees,  this  time  on 

204 


THE  STAR  ASTERS  205 

Mersea  Island,  and  he  had  spent  the  night  at  the  Manor 
House.  The  occasion  had  offered  opportunity  of  some 
talk  on  the  subject  of  exemption. 

"  I  should  like  to  advance  a  claim,"  declared  Mr.  Am- 
brose, "  but  I  will  be  frank  with  you.  Mistley  is,  of 
course,  my  senior  artist,  and,  as  you  know,  is  married." 

"But  he  married  before  August,  so  he's  single  —  just 
as  single  as  Mr.  Seabrook,"  argued  Helena,  who  was 
present  at  the  conversation. 

Then  Seabrook  spoke. 

"  I'm  a  patriot,  as  Mr.  Ambrose  knows.  Our  country 
wants  us  and  we  must  go  —  if  we  can." 

The  elder  nodded. 

"  I  should  be  the  last  to  question  your  determination. 
You  do  not  need  to  be  told  that  I  have  reflected  deeply 
on  the  subject.  My  business  belongs  emphatically  to 
the  times  of  peace,  and  while  a  certain  considerable  body 
of  men  must  still  be  employed  upon  it,  for  the  sake  of  the 
perishable  commodity  in  which  I  deal,  the  issue  of  design- 
ing and  laying  out  new  gardens  may  undoubtedly  be  ad- 
mitted a  minor  matter  for  the  present.  Were  you,  or 
Mistley,  infirai  of  health,  or  physically  prevented  from 
taking  your  place  in  the  ranks,  I  should  be  very  thankful 
to  retain  your  services  if  it  could  be  done." 

"  That's  my  only  fear,"  confessed  Seabrook,  who  had 
already  discussed  the  matter  very  full}'  with  Mrs.  Am- 
brose. "I'm  not  strong  —  not  robust,  that  is  —  and 
my  heart  is  not  very  good;  but  it  would  be  a  terrible  sor- 
row to  me,  as  things  are  now,  if  I  was  prevented  from 
going.  And  even  if  I  couldn't  fight,  I  should  feci  I  ought 
to  be  helping  the  great  cause  in  some  other  way." 

Parkyn  was  interested. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  had  a  physical  weakness.  But 
since  that  is  the  case,  it  might  be  possible,  perhaps,  to 
advance  a  reasonable  claim." 

"  I  would  do  anything  on  earth  for  you,  sir,  and  make 
any  personal   sacrifice  in   my  power.     You   are  a   very 


206  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

great  deal  more  to  me  than  a  master  and,  if  I  may  say  so, 
I  have  always  felt  pride  in  knowing  you  were  my  friend. 
Loyalty  would  make  me  submit  to  anything  that  you 
wished.  I  hope  I  may  be  able  to  serve;  but  if  I  cannot, 
I  shall  place  myself  in  your  hands." 

"  You  can't  do  anything  wiser  than  that,  Mr.  Sea- 
brook,"  said  Helena. 

"  You  have  registered?  "  asked  Ambrose. 

"  Oh,  yes  —  immediately." 

The  elder  considered. 

"  We  can  leave  it  at  that  for  the  moment  and  wait  to 
learn  what  steps  the  Government  will  take." 

The  subject  was  changed,  and  presently  Geoffrey  went 
off  to  the  village  schoolroom  to  sing.  Mr.  Ambrose  did 
not  attend  the  concert,  and  his  wife  had  further  oppor- 
tunities of  speech  with  the  musician. 

It  was  true  he  had  a  weak  heart,  and  a  personal  friend 
in  Colchester  —  a  young  physician  —  had  testified  to  the 
fact ;  but  the  weakness  could  not  be  described  as  serious, 
and  was  hardly  of  a  nature  to  preclude  service. 

"  You  were  wonderful  with  Parkyn :  you  exuded  patri- 
otism," said  Helena. 

He  laughed. 

"  It's  a  bore  to  have  to  humbug  him.  Can  you  well 
imagine  anything  more  futile  than  myself  in  khaki  —  even 
for  home  service?  I  loathe  and  hate  the  whole  business. 
To  herd  with  soldiers,  to  be  driven  about  like  a  beast  and 
forced  into  this  disgusting  machine,  as  a  Chicago  pig  is 
forced  into  the  engine  and  turned  into  mincemeat.  It's 
all  so  unclean  and  unseemly.  But  that's  war.  That's 
what  diplomacy,  secret  diplomacy,  has  planned  for 
myriads  of  decent,  self-respecting,  useful  chaps  —  gen- 
iuses included.  That's  the  best  that  conscious  intelli- 
gence can  do  in  the  way  of  portioning  out  the  earth  be- 
tween the  nations  of  the  earth.  You  can  only  settle  it  by 
killing  off  the  men  of  the  hungry  nations.  And  the 
nation  that  kills  most,  wins.     Which  means  the  weakest 


THE  STAR  ASTERS  207 

go  down.  And  the  hosts  turned  to  dust  are  called 
'  heroes.'  That's  how  the  masses  of  mankind  are  content 
to  let  their  cursed  Governments  rule  them.  And  then  we 
bleat  about  '  freedom  '  and  '  liberty,'  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  idiotic  names  for  things  that  don't  exist  and  never 
have  existed." 

"  You  shan't  go,"  she  said.  "  I'll  give  up  everything 
—  all  our  plans  and  all  our  patience  and  everything.  I 
should  die  if  you  went.  In  any  case  I  should  give  the 
show  away  if  you  went.     I  know  I  should." 

"  We  must  keep  our  nerve.  If  I  hadn't  got  you,  I 
shouldn't  care  a  button,  for  I  should  have  nothing  to  lose 
but  my  life,  and  that's  nothing  without  you.  But  having 
you,  I  naturally  want  to  live.  I  can  delay  and  postpone 
and  put  off  as  long  as  it's  decently  possible.  And  the 
longer  I  keep  out  of  it,  the  less  chance  there  is  of  getting 
shot." 

'•  Some  have  died  in  four  months  from  the  da^'  they 
put  on  khaki,"  she  said. 

"  My  heart  might  really  get  queer  if  I  had  to  go  on 
route  marches  and  all  that  fooler^'.  So  we've  every  rea- 
son to  be  hopeful,"  he  answered.  "  It's  amusing  to  feel 
you're  going  to  be  hunted.  I've  got  a  brain  that  ought 
to  be  rather  great  in  a  thing  like  this.  I'm  not  up  against 
a  man  —  only  a  machine ;  and  if  I  can't  get  the  better  of 
a  machine,  I  must  be  a  bigger  fool  than  I  think  I  am." 

"You  don't  want  to  go?" 

"  Good  Lord,  no !  Nobody  who  isn't  weak  in  his  head 
could  possibly  want  to  go." 

"  One  talks  about  the  glor}^  of  war,  and  khaki  being 
the  only  wear  for  men  and  so  on,"  she  said ;  "  but  when 
you're  faced  suddenly  with  a  hideous  possibility  like 
this " 

He  laughed  again. 

"  Ideals  are  like  our  best  clothes.  We  trot  them  out  to 
please  and  impress  other  people;  and  when  the  other  peo- 
ple  are   gone,   we   put   them    away   again.     They    don't 


208  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

influence  our  working  life;  they're  only  decoration  and 
frills.  Our  real  ideals  we  don't  wear  outside.  If  you're 
a  sane  man  in  an  insane  world,  you  keep  your  true  opin- 
ions to  yourself." 

Helena  met  Geoffrey  again  only  three  days  later  upon 
a  question  she  considered  to  be  urgent.  She  directed  him 
to  be  in  the  gardens  at  noon  at  a  certain  place,  where  she 
would  also  be.  Very  rarely  they  permitted  themselves 
one  of  these  apparently  accidental  meetings.  It  was  a 
practice  held  in  reserve  for  exceptional  occasions,  and 
when  Seabrook  got  her  note,  he  wondered  a  little  what 
it  might  mean. 

They  met  by  the  plantations  of  flowering  shrubs,  now 
plunged  in  autumn  sobriety,  and  she  soon  enlightened 
him. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  there  may  be  danger,"  she  said. 
"  Nothing  comes  single-handed.  I  met  '  Marmalade 
Emma  '  two  days  ago  and  was  nice  to  her  and  gave  her  a 
sovereign.  William  has  been  working  —  at  least  he 
worked  for  one  day,  and  now  he's  ill  again.  And  he  wants 
to  see  you.  Emma  was  on  Mersea  Island  lying  in  wait 
to  tell  me  so.  I  asked  why,  and  said  I  didn't  know 
William  knew  you,  and  so  on.  But  she  reminded  me  of  — 
our  picnic.  In  fact,  life  seems  full  of  anxiety.  If  he's 
really  ill,  he  may  get  desperate  and  do  something  objec- 
tionable." 

"  Don't  feel  in  the  least  perturbed.  If  he  were  respon- 
sible, it  would  be  another  matter,  but  he  isn't.  I'll  see 
him,  however.  But  not  deliberately,  and  not  in  response 
to  that  woman's  message.  I  can  work  it  differently,  and 
I  know  how.  I  can  make  the  man  a  friend  as  easily  as 
possible,  and  the  woman  too." 

"  Emma's  all  right,  but  William's  so  utterly  unex- 
pected, always.  However,  j^ou've  taken  a  weight  off  my 
mind,"  she  said,     "  I  haven't  slept  for  two  nights." 

He  mourned  this  fact  and  thought  her  looking  pale. 

"  I'll    take    an    early    opportunity.     It's    quite    easy. 


THE  STAR  ASTERS  209 

They've  got  a  den  at  Brightlingsea,  haven't  they?  Mar- 
gery Mushet  was  telling  me  about  them." 

"  Yes,  they're  there." 

"  I  shall  hear  that  William  Ambrose  Is  ill  and  visit  him 
—  from  3'ou,  for  charity.  Probably  he'll  have  forgotten 
all  about  the  past.     A  drunkard  has  a  short  memory." 

Helena  took  comfort. 

"  You  heavenly  thing !  You've  quite  set  my  mind  at 
peace.  I'm  here  to  see  somebody  else  —  not  you,  of 
course.  Where  are  the  Michaelmas  daisies?  I  promised 
Aveline  to  meet  her  at  the  INIichaelmas  daisies  and  take 
her  off  to  luncheon." 

"  I'll  show  you  where  Mrs.  Mistley's  at  work.  Say 
you're  happ}'^  again?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  —  as  happy  as  I  ever  shall  be  till  the  mat- 
ter of  your  joining  the  colours  is  cleared  up." 

They  traversed  the  nurseries  and  presently  found 
Aveline  seated  before  great  drifts  of  the  star  asters. 

The  gardens  were  flashing  their  final  fires,  and  on  this 
pure  day  of  October,  Colchester  misted  brightly  above  the 
poplars  and  an  azure  vapour  hung  low  on  Colne.  Sum- 
mer passed  slowly  from  the  flowers.  In  masses  of  clean, 
sparkling  colour  shone  the  Michaelmas  daisies  of  Aveline's 
drawing.  They  made  a  gladness  in  the  sunshine  and  a 
joy  for  the  eye  to  rest  upon.  Bold,  harmonious  con- 
trasts marked  the  banks  and  billows  of  them.  Their  col- 
ours indeed  rolled  like  waves  and  merged  into  each 
other.  Here  were  rich  violets  and  cool  greys,  golden- 
eyed  mauves  and  nodding  crests  of  feathery  white.  The 
magic  children  of  the  heart-leaved  aster  seemed  to  queen 
it  over  the  sturdier  species  for  perfection  of  graceful 
form  and  lustrous  hue.  They  spread  in  great  sheets  of 
flashing  light,  whereon  buttei-flies  opened  and  shut  their 
scarlet  and  ebony  wings. 

Helena  found  Aveline,  bade  Mr.  Seabrook  good-bye, 
and  fell  to  talking.  The  picture,  now  far  advanced, 
quite  filled  her  with  dismay. 


210  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  But  —  but "  she  said,  staring  at  a  pre-Raphael- 

ite  production,  wherein  every  star  of  the  foreground 
flowers  was  meticulously  rayed  — "  but,  my  dear  child, 
what  on  earth  are  you  doing?  Your  own  way  was  the 
right  and  proper  and  only  way  to  paint  this  and  —  good 
gracious,  Aveline  —  how  horrid !  " 

"Isn't  it?  And  you  can't  think  how  difficult,  too. 
What  did  Whistler  say  once  —  about  Brett's  mussels  and 
limpets,  I  think? — 'Quite  wrong,  but  how  the  devil  does 
he  do  it  ?  '  And  when  they're  brought  down  to  the  right 
size  for  the  catalogue  cover,  they  will  just  look  exactly 
like  every  other  catalogue  cover,  and  all  will  be  well." 

"  This  is  very  naughty,"  declared  Helena.  "  I'm 
ashamed  of  you,  Aveline.  And  now  Parkyn  will  crow 
over  me  and  give  you  other  pictures  to  paint.  I've  a 
good  mind  not  to  take  you  to  lunch." 

"You  promised,"  said  Aveline;  "and  I'll  paint  the 
asters  again  —  for  you,  when  I've  finished  this  fearful  and 
wonderful  thing." 

"  You'll  never  put  your  name  to  this  ?  " 

"My  name?  Oh  dear,  yes,  if  he  likes.  What's  in  a 
name?  "  answered  the  painter. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE    INSPIRATION 

Geoffrey  Seabrook  let  it  be  known  that  he  was  going 
down  to  Brightlingsea  to  get  a  breath  of  salt  air  and 
watch  the  Engineers  pontooning. 

But  he  asked  for  the  holiday.  Though  free  to  go  and 
come  without  restriction,  he  never  lost  an  opportunity  to 
be  correct.  When  Parkyn  Ambrose  came  into  the  studio, 
therefore,  Geoffrey  suggested  a  whole  holiday,  since  noth- 
ing official  stood  in  the  way;  and  Mr.  Ambrose  made  no 
objection. 

"  By  all  means,"  he  said.  "  I'm  bound  to  say  it  is  a 
long  time  since  you  relaxed.  I  entertain  a  guest  at  no 
distant  date,"  continued  Ambrose.  "  And  I  shall  take 
occasion  to  bring  him  acquainted  with  jNIr.  Mistley  and 
3'ou.  He  wall  spend  much  of  his  time  in  the  gardens,  and 
the  studio  will  interest  him  a  great  deal.  I  refer  to  Mr. 
Mortimer,  of  Shropshire.  He  is  more  than  a  client:  he 
is  a  friend." 

He  broke  off,  and  Mistley  spoke. 

"  My  wife  has  finished  her  drawing,"  he  said.  "  Shall 
she  send  it  to  you  or  shall  I  bring  it  here?  " 

"  Bring  it  here,"  answered  Park^^i.  "  IMrs.  Ambrose, 
I  regret  to  say,  does  not  feel  tlie  picture  to  be  one  of  Mrs. 
Mistley's  most  successful  achievements.  As  you  will  be 
the  first  to  admit,  with  a  catalogue  illustration  we  want  a 
certain  quality.  The  picture  must  be  helpful  to  the 
potential  purchaser.     Otherwise,  why  have  it?  " 

"That's  what  Aveline  felt,"  said  Peter.  "I  believe 
you'll  like  it,  INIr.  Ambrose." 

"  I  trust  so,"  replied  the  master,  and  went  his  way. 

211 


212  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  You  must  admit  he's  always  anxious  to  be  agreeable," 
said  Geoffrey. 

"  He  is  —  he's  always  amazing,"  answered  Peter. 
"  Even  I  begin  to  admire  him,  I  believe.  The  war  must 
have  hit  him  hard,  but  he  keeps  calm  and  never  grumbles. 
I'm  wondering  how  it  will  go  with  the  married  men,  when 
they're  called  up  to  the  army." 

"  You  don't  come  under  the  head  of  the  married 
men." 

"  I  know ;  but  it  doesn't  alter  the  fact  that  I  am  mar- 
ried, does  it.''  How  is  my  bob  a  day,  or  whatever  it  is, 
going  to  cover  my  rent  and  taxes  and  servant  and  wife 
and  life  assurance,  and  one  or  two  other  things?  " 

"  Mr.  Ambrose  will  take  back  every  member  of  his  staff 
—  who  returns." 

"  Yes;  but  in  the  meantime .?  " 

"  No  doubt  the  Government  will  act.  My  case  is  diffi- 
cult, too.  My  heart  is  not  quite  all  it  should  be  unfortu- 
nately, and  the  chief  wants  me,  of  course,  if  I  can  be 
'  starred  ' ;  but  I'm  not  sure,  even  if  I  can't  join  the  army, 
whether  I  oughtn't  to  chuck  this  and  make  munitions." 

"  Aren't  you  ?  I  shouldn't  have  thought  there  was  a 
shadow  of  doubt.  But  I  dare  say  you'll  be  saved  the 
trouble  of  deciding." 

"  I  want  to  pass,  naturally.  Don't  think  I'm  less  con- 
scious of  my  duty  than  you  are.  I'm  taking  more  exer- 
cise, and  I'm  doing  Miiller's  gymnastics,  too.  It  will  be  a 
great  shock  to  me  if  they  turn  me  down." 

Peter  knew  the  other  lied,  but  was  not  at  the  trouble  to 
argue.  Geoffrey  left  the  studio  presently  and  sought 
Gregory  Mushet,  who  was  busy  in  the  packing  sheds. 
Under  a  half  light,  and  surrounded  by  countless  shelves 
and  drawers  of  ripened  bulbs  and  corms,  Gregory  worked 
with  a  dozen  boys,  and  was  called  to  keep  his  eye  on  all 
twelve  at  once. 

"  I'm  going  down  to  Brightlingsea  to-morrow,  Mushet," 
said  Seabrook,  "  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  might  be  of 


THE  INSPIRATION  213 

service  to  you.  I  know  Mr.  Samuel  Mushet,  your 
brother,  the  engineer  on  the  Fishery  steamer,  lives  there, 
and  if  I  might  carry  a  message,  or  do  you  any  service,  it 
will  be  a  pleasure." 

Mr.  Mushet  considered. 

"  And  very  kind,  I'm  sure.  We're  not  much  of  letter- 
writers,  me  and  him.  But  there  is  a  thing.  Madge  said 
at  breakfast  only  to-day  she  wondered  how  my  nephew 
Teddy  was  going  on.  He's  gone  to  France  and  that's  all 
we  know." 

"  I'll  certainly  call  and  inquire,"  promised  Seabrook. 
"What's  the  address?" 

He  learned  it  and  received  Mr.  Mushet's  thanks.  Then 
the  latter  went  back  to  his  tulips  and  bulbous  irises,  his 
scillas  and  crocuses,  his  wonderful  lilies,  great  and  small. 
For  "  Colneside  "  grew  the  finest  lilies  in  England,  and 
from  the  giant  lily,  whose  home  was  in  the  mist}^  heights 
of  the  Himalayas,  to  the  least  dainty  gem  from  Japan; 
from  the  great,  tigred,  swamp  lilies  of  America  and  the 
snowy  trumpet  lilies  of  Bermuda,  to  the  glories  of  aura- 
tum  and  speciosum,  there  was  no  such  variety  or  quality 
as  the  reaches  of  the  river-side  gardens  provided. 

Seabrook  took  himself  off  next  day.  His  purpose  was 
to  learn  where  William  Ambrose  might  be  found  and  pay 
him  a  visit.  He  went  with  open  mind,  hoped  heartily  to 
find  the  tramp  beyond  the  reach  of  doing  further  mis- 
chief, and  trusted  that  it  might  be  possible  to  make  the 
man  feel  friendly  towards  himself.  He  did  not  trouble 
his  head  with  the  problem  before  learning  its  factors,  for 
if  strategy  proved  needful,  it  must  depend  upon  the  atti- 
tude of  the  other  party. 

His  only  care  was  to  conceal  the  fact  of  his  visit  from 
anybody.  He  had  received  further  information  from 
Helena  by  post,  and,  concerning  William  Ambrose,  he 
learned  that  he  abode  with  a  member  of  the  PeeiviVs  crew, 
Thomas  Darcy,  the  brother  of  Emma. 

Full  of  urbanity,  the  young  man  called  at  the  dwelling 


214?  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

of  the  Mushets'  in  Brightlingsea,  and  Nancy  Mushet  an- 
swered to  his  summons. 

"  I  come  from  '  Colneside,'  "  he  said.  "  I  am  here  for  a 
while,  and  my  friend,  Mr.  Gregory,  your  brother-in-law, 
is  he  not?  asked  me  to  call.     I'm  Mr.  Seabrook." 

Nancy  bade  him  to  enter  and  he  did  so,  sat  in  the  par- 
lour, and  begged  her  to  be  seated. 

"  I  shan't  detain  you,  Mrs.  Mushet.  Gregory  and 
Miss  Mushet,  who  both  work  with  us,  you  know,  were 
anxious  at  not  hearing  the  last  news  concerning  your  son, 
Teddy." 

"  We've  heard  nothing,  sir." 

*'  No  news  is  good  news." 

"  We  tell  ourselves  so.  It's  a  cruel  strain.  To  think 
these  millions  of  harmless,  valuable  men  should  all  be 
swept  away  at  the  bidding  of  a  madman,  to  build  a  wall 
of  living  flesh  and  blood  for  him  to  batter !  It's  an  out- 
rage against  God  —  that's  what  I  say." 

"  Nothing  happens  that  is  not  permitted  by  an  All- 
seeing  Wisdom,  Mrs.  Mushet,"  replied  Seabrook.  "  We 
must  not  repine.  We  are  going  through  a  fearful  ordeal, 
and  our  Maker  has  willed  that  we  make  this  sacrifice  for 
the  good  of  humanity  and  the  triumph  of  His  cause.  It 
is  a  glorious  thing  to  feel  you  have  a  son  in  God's  army. 
I  speak,  of  course,  as  a  Christian  first  and  a  patriot  after- 
wards." 

Nancy  regarded  him. 

"  You're  young,  and  you  speak  as  you  feel,"  she  said ; 
"  but  nature  is  nature  and  Christianity  can't  kill  nature. 
Christianity  can  do  a  lot  of  things ;  but  it  can't  make  a 
fool  a  wise  man,  and  it  can't  make  a  mother's  heart  any- 
thing but  a  mother's  heart." 

"  True,  true,"  admitted  Seabrook.  "  And  no  man  rev- 
erences the  maternal  instinct  more  than  I  do.  Did  not 
Christ  himself  reverence  it?" 

He  uttered  further  religious  sentiments,  then  came  to 
the  matter  in  his  mind. 


THE  INSPIRATION  215 

"  I  attended  the  last  Opening  of  the  Fishery  and  had 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  your  husband  and  the  crew  of  the 
Peewit.  It  was  a  privilege  to  meet  them.  There  was  a 
middle-aged  man  called  Darcy,  I  remember  —  rather  a 
striking  personality." 

"  He's  been  on  the  steamer  as  long  as  any  of  them." 

"  A  freeman,  like  Mr.  Mushet  ?  " 

"  Just  the  same.     He's  a  very  good  chap." 

"  One  would  like  to  meet  him  again." 

Mrs.  Mushet  was  not  a  gossip,  but  she  spoke  now  of 
Tom  Darcy's  difficulties. 

"  Coming  from  *  Colneside '  you'll  know,  of  course, 
about  Mr.  Ambrose's  brother,  William.^  " 

"  A  little.     I  never  inquired.     It's  a  sad  business." 

"  He's  with  Darcy." 

"Where?" 

"  The  last  cottage  in  the  row  up  the  hill.  He's  been  a 
thorn  in  Tom's  side  for  a  long  time.  But,  for  his  sister's 
sake,  he  can't  do  anything." 

"  A  terrible  tragedy." 

"  The  drink's  done  it." 

"  For  such  people,"  said  Geoffrey,  "  one  is  almost 
tempted  to  wish  them  dead,  not  only  for  the  sake  of  the 
living,  but  for  their  own  sakes.  We  may  not  justify  our 
existence  in  this  world,  Mrs.  Mushet,  but  be  sure  we  shall 
have  to  do  so  in  the  next." 

Nancy  approved  this  sentiment.  She  began  to  respect 
Mr.  Seabrook,  yet  felt  a  discrepancy  between  his  appear- 
ance and  the  excellent  opinions  that  apparently  guided 
him  along  the  road  of  life. 

"  Darcy  will  be  home  about  four  o'clock,  I  expect,  if 
you  want  a  word  with  him,"  she  said.  "  And  Mr.  Mushet 
will  be  back  the  same  time." 

"  I'd  dearly  like  to  see  Mr.  Mushet  if  it  was  possible," 
he  declared. 

"  Would  you  favour  us  and  drink  a  cup  of  tea,  if  you're 
not  going  home  sooner,  sir?" 


216  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,  if  you're  quite  sure  I  may.  It's 
most  kind.  I  must  go  for  a  tramp  now  and  get  some  sea 
air.     What  hour  will  be  convenient.'*  " 

He  planned  to  be  back  again  at  half-past  four  and  then 
departed.  He  knew  that  Darcy  would  not  be  at  home, 
but  guessed  that  Emma  Darcy  must  be  there  with  the  dis- 
abled William. 

The  house  proved  easy  to  find,  and  he  strolled  about 
until  the  coast  was  clear,  then  popped  in. 

Emma  admitted  him,  and  he  told  her  that  he  was  come 
from  Mrs.  Ambrose. 

"  She's  sorry  to  hear  that  your  man  is  so  ill,"  he  said. 
"  I  was  down  here  for  a  breath  of  sea  air,  and  I  wanted  to 
see  some  old  acquaintance  too,  your  brother  among  them, 
so  it  fitted  in  very  well." 

Emma  regarded  him  doubtfully. 

"  What  d'you  want  along  with  my  brother .''  "  she  asked. 

"  Just  the  pleasure  of  a  chat.  We  met  on  the  Peewit 
at  the  Opening  of  the  Fishery  last  August." 

"  William  sent  word  for  you." 

"  And  I  was  so  glad  I  could  come.     I  hope  he's  better." 

"  He  nilly  croaked  two  nights  ago.  But  doctor  gave 
us  a  mite  o'  comfort  to-day.  And  William  finds  he  don't 
want  to  die  yet." 

"  Die!     Of  course  not.     Is  he  up  to  seeing  me.'*  " 

"  I'll  ask  him,"  she  answered,  and  presently  returned 
to  say  that  the  sick  man  would  thank  Seabrook  to  come 
up. 

"  Saturday's  moon  is  good  for  nought,  as  everybody 
knows,"  explained  Emma,  "  and  there  was  a  full  moon 
Saturday,  and  it  done  Billy  a  lot  of  harm.  But  he's  mak- 
ing up  now." 

The  sufferer  was  in  bed,  and  appeared  to  be  fairly  clean 
and  collected.  The  room  was  sweet  and  the  window  wide 
open. 

Seabrook  offered  to  shake  hands  and  William  saluted 
him. 


THE  INSPIRATION  217 

"  Now  you  can  go  about  your  business,"  he  said  to 
Emma.  "  Me  and  this  man  will  talk.  He'll  be  here 
half-an-hour,  I  dare  say,  if  he  can  breathe  the  air  so  long. 
God  knows  I  won't  stop  under  a  roof  more  than  another 
week,  live  or  die." 

"  I'll  run  out,  then,"  answered  Emma,  "  and  buy  a 
thing  or  two." 

She  pulled  a  curtain  from  a  corner  and  revealed  a  row 
of  pegs.  Upon  one  hung  her  dreadful  coat  and  hat  with 
the  turkey  feather.  These  she  donned  and  departed. 
Geoffrey  saw  her  to  the  top  of  the  staircase  and  gave  her 
a  half-sovereign. 

"  Get  him  anything  he  fancies,"  he  whispered,  "  and 
don't  mention  me  to  anybody  for  the  moment." 

She  nodded,  descended  and  went  her  way,  while  the 
visitor  returned,  offered  William  a  cigarette,  and  sat  on 
a  cane  chair  beside  the  sick  man. 

There  were  no  witnesses  to  their  conversation,  but  Sea- 
brook  was  very  guarded  and  soon  angered  William.  The 
invalid  proved  sober  but  reckless.  He  used  language  wild 
and  vile,  and  laughed  at  Geoffrey.  In  the  younger  man's 
opinion,  he  was  not  dangerous. 

"Well,  'Moustache,'  and  how  is  she.?"  asked  Billy. 

*' How  are  you?     That's  the  point." 

"  You  want  me  to  peg  out,  of  course.  You've  been  in 
a  devil  of  a  stew,  I  expect,  and  hoped  every  day  to  hear  I 
was  dead  and  you  were  safe.  And  if  I  was  to  tell  you  my 
brother  was  a  scoundrel,  and  a  low  thief,  and  a  hypocrite, 
you'd  not  believe  it." 

"  Come,  come,  he's  not  so  bad  as  all  that." 

"  Of  course  you  praise  him.  That's  your  game. 
Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this :  that  a  man  laj^  down 
his  wife  for  his  friend.  Ha !  ha !  You're  deep,  you  little 
cock-sparrow,  you're  deep !  But  I'm  deeper.  Deep  as 
hell  —  and  shall  soon  be  in  it." 

"  Pull  yourself  together." 


218  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  You  haven't  come  from  my  bliglited  brother,  or  any- 
thing like  that?" 

"  No,  no." 

"  Shall  I  tell  him?  "  asked  William,  "  and  bitch  up  your 
show  and  have  you  fired  out  of  '  Colneside  ' ;  or  shall  I  use 
you  against  him,  and  score  off  him  before  it's  too  late?  " 

"  Can  you  fairly  say  he's  used  you  ill?  " 

"  Yes,  as  badly  as  you've  used  him.  I've  forgiven  the 
swine  a  thousand  times  and  made  allowances  for  his  ig- 
norance. But  I  don't  want  to  die  without  scoring  off 
him." 

"  The  best  sort  of  score  is  to  forgive  him  again." 

"  You  can  preach  to  me  —  after  Mersea  Island ! 
You've  got  a  front  of  brass.  Why  should  I  forgive 
him?" 

"  You  can't  hurt  him,  anyway,  so  wh}'  fret  about  that? 
Better  make  friends,  and  then  he'll  look  after  3^ou." 

Billy  reflected,  and  his  bloodshot  eyes  stared  steadily 
at  Mr.  Seabrook. 

"  You  may  wriggle  and  you  may  twist,  but  you're  not 
going  to  bluff  me,"  he  said.  "  You've  got  to  come  down 
from  your  perch,  my  hero." 

"  You  didn't  send  for  me  to  make  jokes.  You  wanted 
me  to  be  useful.  Mrs.  Ambrose  thinks  a  lot  of  you  and 
Miss  Darcy.  She  says  you're  the  fine,  fearless  sort  and 
scorn  the  herd." 

"  And  what  do  you  think?  " 

"  It  takes  all  sorts  to  make  a  world.  We  can't  all  be 
wandering  philosophers  like  3^ou." 

"  Or  secret  blackguards  like  j'ou." 

"  Come,  come !     Those  Avho  live  in  glass  houses  —  eh?  " 

"  Ah !  "  chuckled  Billy.  "  That's  better.  Now  you're 
getting  down  to  bed  rock.  Now,  perhaps,  we  can  talk 
sense.     If  you  admit  you're  a " 

"I'm  admitting  nothing.  Why  should  I  —  just  to 
please  you?  " 

"  You're  going  to  bluff  it  ?  " 


THE  INSPIRATION  219 

"What  does  it  matter  to  you?  What  d'you  gain? 
You  think  the  wife  of  my  master  is  more  to  me  than  slie 
ought  to  be?  " 

"  Garn,  you  fool !  I  never  thought  that,  or  said  it.  I 
only  want  you  to  admit  the  truth.  How  the  devil  do  I 
know  what  she  ought  to  be,  or  oughtn't  to  be?  I'm  not 
blaming  you  for  your  games.  I'm  blaming  you  for  pre- 
tending to  me,  a  bird  of  your  own  feather  —  a  night  hawk 
like  yourself.  Aren't  I  good  enough  to  be  in  the  know? 
Ain't  my  word  good  enough  if  I  say  I'm  on  your  side,  as 
I'm  on  the  side  of  everybody  who  scores  off  my  brother? 
Is  it  likely  that  I'll  quarrel  with  anybody  that's  bested 
him?" 

"  Why  d'you  hate  him?  " 

"  There  you  are,  wriggling  again  —  anything  but  the 
straight  answer  to  the  straight  question.  You  want  to 
run  with  the  hare  and  hunt  with  the  hounds,  you  do. 
You  want  to  follow  your  own  way,  yet  keep  in  the  herd,  so 
that  the  herd  shall  protect  you.  You  want  to  be  sheep 
and  tiger  both,  like  most  of  your  dirty  sort.  I  wasn't 
going  to  give  you  away." 

"  Look  here,  William,"  said  Mr.  Seabrook.  "  You're 
wasting  your  strength  and  my  time.  Everybody's  got 
to  run  his  life  on  his  own  lines,  and  you  know  very  well 
that  few  people  can  exhibit  the  sublime  indifference  to 
other  people  that  you  and  Emma  do.  You're  unique  and 
all  the  rest  of  it,  but  you're  going  from  your  own  ideas 
by  badgering  others ;  because  *  live  and  let  live  '  is  3'our 
motto.  Mrs.  Ambrose  is  very  keen  to  help  you ;  then 
why  not  let  her?  If  you  want  to  go  on  living,  you  ought 
to  get  away  to  the  South  of  France,  or  the  Cape,  and 
escape  next  winter.  Well,  what's  the  good  of  falling  out 
with  people  who  could  work  that  for  you  ?  " 

William  did  not  answer.  He  would  have  liked  to  take 
Geoffrey  by  the  neck  and  knock  his  curly  head  against  the 
wall ;  but  he  lacked  the  strength. 

"What   d'you   think   of  my  brother?"  he  asked   sud- 


220  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

denly.  "  What  does  Helena  say  to  you  about  him?  But 
there  —  don't  answer  —  don't  waste  lies  on  me.  We're 
not  going  to  be  pals,  so  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think  of  him. 
He's  the  biggest  damned  hypocrite  in  Colchester  —  after 
yourself." 

Seabrook  ignored  this  insult. 

"  I  always  understood  you  made  allowances  for  his 
conventional  bent  of  mind." 

An  intellect  that  had  been  brilliant  but  for  the  defects 
that  ruined  it,  was  knitting  now  against  the  sleek  Geof- 
frey. At  his  best,  William  was  still  more  than  a  match 
for  the  younger  man.  Thoughts  struggled  in  the  elder's 
head.  He  saw  that  he  was  losing  the  little  bit  of  fun  that 
he  had  planned,  that  Seabrook  would  confess  nothing  and 
did  not  intend  to  involve  himself.  Thereon  an  attitude 
of  tolerance  to  the  draughtsman  was  changed.  Billy 
could  forgive  him  for  being  a  humbug  and  hypocrite  to 
the  world ;  he  could  not  forgive  him  for  being  a  humbug 
and  hypocrite  to  him.  Even  Helena  had  not  been  a 
humbug  and  hypocrite  to  Emma.  She  had  tacitly  ad- 
mitted the  sharing  of  a  secret. 

He  had  a  bad  fit  of  coughing  and  was  weary.  He 
pointed  to  a  bottle  on  a  chest  of  drawers  and  Seabrook 
helped  him  to  some  medicine. 

"  You're  one  too  many  for  me,  I  reckon,"  confessed 
William,  when  he  recovered  from  the  paroxysm. 

"  No,  I'm  not.     I  tell  you  I  want  to  serve  you  if  I  can." 

"  Begin  by  hating  Parkyn  Ambrose,  then." 

Emma  returned  at  this  juncture  in  time  to  hear  William 
pour  a  torrent  of  very  foul  and  filthy  abuse  upon  his 
brother. 

She  was  much  surprised,  for  William  seldom  took  this 
line. 

"  Goodstruth!  "  she  said.  "  What's  the  matter?  Have 
'Moustache'  made  you  hate  the  man?  Don't  get  so 
excited.     It's  bad  for  you,  Billy." 

Then  she  turned  to  Seabrook. 


THE  INSPIRATION  221 

"  What's  the  good  of  making  him  rage  against  your 
master?  "  she  said. 

"  I'm  not,"  declared  Geoffrey.  "  No  doubt  there  were 
faults  on  both  sides ;  but  that's  no  business  of  mine.  I 
really  don't  know  what  your  William  wants  me  to  do. 
I've  come  with  a  very  fine  suggestion  from  Mrs.  Ambrose, 
and  I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  about  Mr.  Am- 
brose." 

"  He  won't  admit  nothing,"  said  Billy,  pointing  at  the 
visitor.  "  He  won't  admit  my  brother's  a  swine,  and  he 
won't  even  admit  he's  a  love-hunter  himself  and  gathers 
his  roses  where  he  may.  He  wants  to  be  a  psalm-singer 
and  a  Christian,  and  all  that  —  to  me,  as  if  there  was  no 
such  place  as  the  saltings  on  Blackwater.  And  if  I 
asked  him  now  to  be  a  sportsman  and  help  a  dying  man 
to  get  even  with  a  certain  party  before  it's  too  late,  he 
wouldn't  do  it." 

"  I  never  said  I  wouldn't  help  you,"  answered  the 
other.  "  I  want  to  help  you,  only  you  won't  give  me  a 
chance.  Mrs.  Ambrose  saw  Dr.  Carbonell  entirely  on 
your  behalf,  and  the  doctor  said  that  if  you  could  be  got 
out  of  England  into  a  warm  climate  for  the  winter,  and 
took  a  bit  more  care  of  yourself,  you  might  live  another 
ten  vears." 

"  bo !  "  exclaimed  Emma.     "  Think,  William  !  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  live  another  ten  years,"  declared  the 
stricken  man.  "  And  I  know  that's  rot,  anyway.  I'm 
booked,  but  I've  got  ideas." 

"  If  your  brother  would  help  you  big  like  that,  you  can 
take  it,  if  it's  only  for  my  sake,"  said  Emma. 

"  Don't  mistake,"  explained  Geoffrey.  "  It's  not  Mr. 
Parkyn's  suggestion,  Miss  Darcy:  it's  the  proposal  of 
Mrs.  Ambrose.  She's  always  admired  William  and  you, 
and  felt  very  kindly  to  you.  That's  not  humbug  anyway, 
for  you  know  it's  true.  And  William  needn't  think  I'm 
not  friendly,  because  I  am ;  and  if  it  was  in  my  power  to 
do  him  a  turn  I  would." 


222  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  The  thing  for  William  is  to  keep  calm  anyway,"  said 
Emma,  "  and  I  want  for  him  so  to  be." 

Seabrook  rose. 

"  I'll  come  and  see  you  both  again,"  he  said.  "  Talk  it 
over  with  him.  If  he  can  be  patched  up  and  go  for  a  sea 
voyage,  he  may  be  saved.  And  if  he  doesn't  like  that  idea 
and  thinks  I  can  help  him  in  any  other  direction,  I'm 
game  to  do  it." 

William  nodded  and  grew  quieter.  Then  the  other 
soon  took  his  leave.  Wlien  Emma  had  seen  him  off,  she 
returned  to  the  sick  man  and  ventured  to  praise  Mr.  Sea- 
book. 

"  He  means  well,  *  Moustache '  do.  Think  if  we  was 
to  go  to  a  hot,  sunny  place,  how  you'd  be  able  to  enjoy 
yourself,  Billy." 

"  He's  a  dirty  dog  and  crooked  as  a  sickle,"  declared 
the  sufferer.  "  But  he's  clever,  though  not  so  clever  as 
me.     I've  got  ideas." 

"  We've  never  bin  foreign,"  she  said.  "  I'd  love  to  go 
along  wi'  you.  'Twould  be  a  very  fine  thing  to  have  a 
dollop  of  money  for  once." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Far  beyond  me.  But  I  won't  die  without  a  splutter. 
And  I'll  get  something  out  of  that  dog  yet." 

And  in  the  meantime  Geoffrey  went  his  way  and  modi- 
fied his  plans  a  little.  He  spent  the  morning  in  walking, 
lunched  at  the  "  King's  Head "  and  was  at  the  Hard 
before  the  Peewit  returned.  Then,  after  the  boats  laden 
with  the  cullers  and  cleaners  had  come  ashore,  he  marked 
Mr.  Mushet  arrive  with  other  hands  from  the  steamer. 
Seabrook  remembered  the  russet  brown  of  the  engineer's 
apparel  and  quickly  scraped  acquaintance.  Thomas 
Darcy,  however,  he  could  not  see,  for  Tom  stopped 
aboard,  since  it  was  his  turn  to  be  watchman  until  the 
morrow. 

"  I  must  meet  him  another  time,  then.  I've  called  at 
his  house  and  seen  those  unfortunate  people,  his  sister 


THE  INSPIRATION  223 

and  William  Ambrose,  and  now  I'm  coming  to  tea  at  your 
wife's  invitation." 

Samuel  had  no  recollection  of  Seabrook,  but  took  him 
at  his  word.  They  spoke  of  "  Colneside."  Then  the 
draughtsman  asked  for  information  on  oyster  lore. 

He  enjoyed  his  tea,  expressed  his  great  regret  at  the 
situation  of  Emma  and  Billy,  hoped  it  presently  might  be 
ameliorated,  and  went  so  far  as  to  hint  at  the  wishes  of 
Billy's  sister-in-law. 

"  Don't  let  it  go  farther,"  he  said,  "  for  it  is,  of  course, 
a  very  confidential  matter ;  but  I  believe  we  may  soon  hear 
that  they  will  be  induced  to  leave  England,  if  the  man 
recovers  his  health  sufficiently  to  do  so." 

"  He  won't,"  declared  Samuel.  "  Darcy  tells  me  he's 
on  his  beam  ends,  and  doubts  if  he'll  ever  leave  his  bed 
again  except  for  his  coffin." 

Geoffrey   sighed. 

"  One  can  easily  guess  what  a  terrible  trial  it  must  have 
been  for  his  brother,  Mr.  Parkj-n  Ambrose." 

"  A  proper  skeleton  in  the  cupboard,  no  doubt,  and  he'll 
be  thankful  to  God  when  he  pegs  out." 

With  many  thanks  for  their  hospitality  and  assurances 
of  a  future  visit,  Seabrook  left  them ;  and  it  was  in  the 
train  on  his  way  home  that  the  first  dim  sheet  lightning  of 
a  great  inspiration  flashed  in  his  mind.  So  shadow}^  was 
it  that  it  escaped  him.  It  came  like  a  night  mist  —  in- 
visible to  the  wanderer,  yet  felt  by  its  effect  on  temper- 
ature. It  almost  chilled  him.  He  flung  it  aside,  but  it 
returned  in  shape  a  little  less  amorphous,  and  by  the 
time  he  reached  home  he  felt  not  prepared  to  say  the 
infernal  idea  was  vain.  Billy  Ambrose  himself  had  indi- 
cated the  possibility.  He  believed  that  Billy  was  dying 
and  that  he  would  never  leave  Tom  Darcy's  home  again  ; 
but  there  remained  in  him  immense  possibilities,  given  skill 
from  outside  to  develop  them.  The  inspiration  made  the 
young  man's  heart  beat  swifter.  Here  was  such  an  in- 
trigue as  he  judged  his  brains  well  fitted  to  conduct  and 


224  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

control.  The  danger  was  great,  and  upon  the  duration 
of  Billy's  life  everything  depended;  but  success  meant 
something  so  far-reaching  and  complete,  that  Seabrook 
knew  no  labour  on  his  part,  no  sacrifice  of  time  and 
thought,  no  reasonable  risk  could  be  too  great,  if  the}' 
but  brought  him  to  the  goal. 

The  dark  side  of  the  picture  centred  in  this:  that 
Geoffrey  would  be  called  to  lift  the  mask  in  one  quarter 
and  suffer  another  man  to  know  a  little  of  the  truth  about 
himself.  The  need  to  do  so  he  hated;  indeed  only  one 
conceivable  situation  could  justify  such  a  hazard,  and  it 
remained  to  be  seen  whether  chance  would  create  that 
situation. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE    SPIDER 

AvELiNE  met  Emma  Darcy  a  few  days  after  Seabrook's 
visit  to  Brightlingsea,  and  seeing  her  alone  on  Colchester 
High  Street,  made  inquiries  and  learned  that  William  was 
no  better. 

"  He's  fading,"  said  Emma,  *'  and  the  bitter  thing  is 
that  nobody  cares  a  damn  but  me.  A  wonderful  man  like 
William  —  and  nobody  cares." 

"  But  there's  life  yet  and  you  to  nurse  him.  You  must 
be  hopeful,  Emma." 

"  I  would  be  if  he  wanted  to  live.  He's  got  such  a  will 
that  if  he  said  '  I'll  live,'  then  he'd  do  it.  But  he  don't. 
He's  fed  up  with  life.  That  Helena's  kindness  alive  and 
would  let  us  go  away  to  a  place  in  the  sun  somewhere  if 
William  would  get  well ;  and  he  could,  and  I'm  at  him  night 
and  day  to  do  it  —  for  my  sake,  if  not  his  own." 

Presently  Emma  begged  Aveline  to  come  and  see  Wil- 
liam. 

"  He  likes  you.  If  you  was  to  beg  him  to  recover  and 
go  to  Franco,  I  lay  he'd  go.  If  he  knew  there  was  one 
here  and  there  that  wanted  him  to  keep  alive,  it  might 
spur  him  to  do  it.  But  feeling  nobody  cares  a  mite  how 
soon  he's  underground " 

"  I  must  come  if  you  put  it  like  that,"  said  Aveline. 
"  Let's  go  and  buy  something  for  him  now." 

Emma  had  come  for  fruit. 

"  He's  taken  a  fancy  for  grapes,"  she  said.  "  They 
quench  him." 

Two  days  later  Aveline  visited  Brightlingsea  and  spent 
an  hour  with  the  sufferer. 

225 


226  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  Last  night  he  skeered  me  in  a  fit,"  confessed  Emma, 
before  thej  went  to  the  upper  chamber  where  Billy  lay. 
"  Half  after  two  I  thought  he  was  a  goner.  And  I  called 
up  Tom  —  that's  my  brother  —  and  begged  William  for 
God's  sake  not  to  leave  me.  Then  he  turned  better  and 
said  he  weren't  going  for  a  bit  yet,  till  he'd  evened  things 
up  here  and  there.  He's  got  his  knife  into  his  brother 
now.     That's  a  new  turn,  you  may  say." 

They  went  up  and  found  William  calm  and  cheerful. 
Aveline  had  brought  him  a  packet  of  choice  cigarettes, 
and  he  thanked  her  and  began  smoking  them  at  once. 

"  Light  up,"  he  said  to  her,  "  and  you  too,  Em.  Smoke 
does  me  good.  I'm  sick  of  the  housen.  There's  nought 
more  blasted  to  look  at  than  a  ceiling  if  you're  used  to 
stars  in  the  sky.  The  sky's  alive,  and  now  it's  clouds  and 
now  it's  stars,  and  you  get  thought  out  of  it ;  but  a  square 

of  whitewash There's  a  big  spider  lives  up  in  the 

corner.     He's  taught  me  a  thing  or  two." 

The  man  pointed  to  a  grey  web  two  yards  from  his  head. 

"  We  understand  each  other,"  said  William.  "  He 
knows  me  and  I  know  him.  Catch  the  beggar  a  fly, 
Emma." 

"  He's  that  human,"  said  Emma,  "  that  he's  got  to 
know  us  and  trust  us." 

"  And  I'm  a  spider,  too,"  said  William,  "  and  I'll  have 
my  fly  yet  afore  I  die." 

Emma  captured  an  unlucky  house-fly,  stood  on  the  bed, 
and  thrust  the  creature  into  the  edge  of  the  spider's  web. 
Scarcely  had  her  hand  left  it  when  from  out  of  its  cone 
flashed  a  black  hairy  little  shape,  grabbed  the  fly,  and 
retreated. 

Aveline  shivered. 

"  However  can  you  sleep  with  that  wretch  so  near.''  " 
she  asked. 

"  It's  the  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft,"  explained  Emma. 
"  That's  what  Billy  calls  it.  He  says  they've  got  an 
understanding  —  him    and   the    spider.     We   don't    mind 


THE  SPIDER  227 

creatures  except  the  stingers.  We've  slept  under  a  wasp's 
nest  afore  now  and  never  knowed  it  until  morning,  haven't 
we,  William?  " 

"  There's  only  one  wasp  in  the  world,"  said  William, 
"  and  he's  called  Parkyn  Ambrose,  Esquire,  and  I'm  the 
spider  that's  going  to  suck  his  blood  yet." 

"  Don't  you  begin  that.  Here's  '  Grey  Eyes  '  come  to 
have  a  nice  talk  and  cheer  you  up.  She's  been  painting  a 
picture  for  your  brother,  and  is  going  to  get  money  by 
it." 

"  Paint  him  a  picture  of  me  lying  here  —  brought  here 
by  him,"  said  Billy.  "  And  paint  these  hairy  arms  and 
my  yellow  teeth,  and  tell  him  these  arms  will  be  round  his 
neck  and  those  teeth  in  his  windpipe  yet.  Tell  him  he's  a 
djang  man  —  tell  him " 

He  stopped  and  laughed  at  Aveline's  horrified  face. 

"  I'm  teasing  you,"  he  said.  "  Parkyn's  all  right.  I 
wouldn't  hurt  him.  Why  should  I?  Such  a  brother  as 
he's  been  to  me.  I'll  make  a  good  end,  you  know.  But 
it's  his  place  to  come  and  close  my  eyes." 

"  I'm  sure  he'd  come  if  3^ou  wished  it,"  said  Aveline. 

Then  the  man  blazed  out  again. 

"  Curse  the  fat  dog !  He's  done  things  I  wouldn't  like 
a  bird  on  a  tree  to  see  me  do,  or  that  spider  in  tlic  corner." 

"  Let  alone  Gord,"  added  Emma. 

"  And  the  crushing  thing  is  that  he's  built  not  to  know 
he's  wrong.  If  the  justice  of  blasted  law  books  and 
blasted  lawyers  is  on  his  side,  then  he  don't  care  wlio  suf- 
fers. He  looks  to  the  law,  like  decent  creatures  look  to 
the  Almighty.  Mercy  and  the  human  heart,  that  hunger 
to  tear  the  law  books  and  brain  the  men  that  wrote  'em  — 
what  does  he  know  of  them  ?  " 

"  If  it's  left  out  of  him,  he  can't  help  it,"  said  Aveline. 

"  There's  many  things  left  out  that  human  kindness  can 
put  in,  however,"  argued  Emma. 

"  So  there  is  —  the  woman's  riglit.  There's  such  a 
thing  as  opening  the  eyes  of  the  blind  and  softening  the 


THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

heart  of  stone ;  but  not  with  Parkyn  Ambrose.  He'll  hear 
his  wife's  played  him  false  if  I  choose  to  tell  him.  And 
what  would  he  do?  Would  he  look  into  his  own  withered 
soul  for  the  reason?  " 

"  Goodstruth !  Do  shut  jour  mouth,  Billy ! "  cried 
Emma,  her  eyes  round  with  alarm. 

"  I  shan't  shut  my  mouth  —  not  to  this  woman,  any- 
how. I  lay  she  knows  a  darned  sight  more  about  it  than 
we  do,  for  that  matter.  They're  pals,  ain't  they?  She 
knows  that  dapper  little  devil's  my  sister-in-law's  fancy 
man.  And  as  for  the  husband,  I've  pitied  him  all  my  life ; 
but  I  won't  pity  him  no  more.  He's  got  it  in  the  neck, 
and  I'm  glad  he  has." 

He  had  exhausted  himself  and  pointed  to  a  bottle. 

"  Didn't  you  know?  "  asked  Emma  of  Aveline. 

"  It  can't  be  —  it's  wild  nonsense,"  she  answered. 

William  panted  and  spoke  again  more  quietly. 

"  Tell  the  fool  she  needn't  worry.  I  ain't  going  to  give 
her  away.  She  was  always  sporting  to  us,  anyhow. 
She'll  live  to  put  a  fine  marble  tomb  over  my  bones  yet. 
And  you  tell  her  there  must  be  room  for  Emma  to  creep 
in  it,  when  she's  through." 

The  extraordinary  interview  lasted  but  a  short  time 
longer,  for  Aveline  felt  herself  useless,  and  Emma  was  evi- 
dently anxious  for  her  to  be  gone.  William  said  he 
wanted  to  sleep,  and  they  left  him. 

"  He'll  sleep  a  long  time  now,"  said  Emma.  "  When 
he's  been  chattering  in  that  way  it  knocks  him  out,  and 
he's  like  a  lamb  for  a  bit  after.  And  for  Gord's  sake 
don't  you  take  no  notice  of  what  he's  been  saying,  '  Grey 
Eyes.'  If  his  sister-in-law  thought  he  was  telling  people, 
she  wouldn't  offer  to  help  no  more.  Very  like  she'd  have 
the  law  of  him  instead.  She'd  have  to  do  it  to  save  her 
face." 

"  You  can  trust  me,"  promised  the  other.  "  Of  course 
it's  all  mad  nonsense.  But  William's  evidently  very  ill,  or 
I'm  sure  he  wouldn't  say  such  things." 


THE  SPIDER  229 

"  It's  true  enough,  for  that  matter.  The  young  man 
was  over  here  a  bit  ago  talking  to  William  and  trying  to 
calm  him  down.  However,  least  said  soonest  mended,  and 
I'll  pray  you  forget  about  it." 

"  You  can  trust  me ;  I'll  come  again  some  day.  Send 
me  a  postcard  or  come  and  see  me,  if  I  can  be  any  good." 

Then  Aveline  went  her  way,  and  Peter  only  learned  that 
she  had  been  to  Brightlingsea,  visited  Emma  Darcy,  and 
found  the  brother  of  Parkyn  Ambrose  apparently  dying. 

**  The  sooner  the  better  —  poor  devil." 

"  And  he  might  have  been  successful,  too.  He's  ever 
so  much  more  interesting  than  Mr.  Ambrose.  And  now 
I  believe  he's  going  mad." 

"  Don't  you  be  too  busy  in  that  quarter,"  advised  Peter. 
"  It's  a  polite  fiction  at  '  Colneside '  that  there's  no  such 
person  as  Billy." 

"  I  won't  speak  of  him,  of  course,"  she  answered.  "  We 
know  that  our  Mr.  Ambrose  is  ever  so  good  —  in  the  most 
horrid  acceptation  of  the  word  —  and  I  know  Billy  is 
ever  so  bad ;  but,  all  the  same,  I  dare  saj'  if  Mr.  Ambrose 
had  treated  him  differently  Billy  wouldn't  hate  him  now." 

"  He's  sodden,  and  his  brain  is  probably  done  for.  We 
can  only  hope  he'll  die  soon." 

From  that  moment  Aveline's  thoughts  were  entirely  oc- 
cupied with  Helena,  and  her  heart  went  out  to  her.  She 
devoted  her  mind  to  the  wife  of  the  master  of  "  Colne- 
side "  and  soon  found  abundant  sympathy  flowing  for  that 
lawless  lady.  Shared  virtues  and  a  kindred  enthusiasm 
for  well-doing  are  good  cement;  but  shared  errors  and 
common  weakness  bring  souls  into  still  closer  terms  of 
trust. 

Helena  and  Aveline  had  been  drawn  together  by  a  gen- 
eral tolerance  which  they  found  reflected  in  each  other; 
but  each  had  kept  such  secrets  as  she  possessed.  Helena 
confessed  to  no  irregularity,  but  forgave  irregularity  in 
others,  while  Aveline  took  the  same  course.  They  both 
admitted  sympathy  with  William  and  Emma;  they  both 


230  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

declared  hatred  of  the  stuffy  regulations  of  their  middle- 
class  life;  while  as  time  went  on  and  their  friendship  rip- 
ened, they  enlarged  the  limits  of  their  toleration  and 
supported  each  other  in  their  private  opinions  and  atti- 
tude to  existence. 

Helena  envied  Aveline  the  possession  of  a  husband  free 
from  prejudice;  and  Aveline,  while  admitting  her  good 
fortune,  nevertheless  confessed  that  Peter,  while  large- 
minded  enough  before  marriage,  was  tinctured  with  a  very 
definite  stability  and  respect  for  tradition,  after  all.  He 
had  even  modified  her  own  former  opinions  in  some  direc- 
tions. Whereon  Helena  replied  that  Parkyn,  far  from 
modifying  her  opinions  in  any  direction,  only  served  to 
harden  them. 

Aveline  went  to  lunch  at  West  Mersea  and  found  her 
friend  depressed. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  be  bright  to-day,"  said  Helena, 
"  for  I'm  in  doleful  dumps  —  full  of  private  bothers  and, 
on  the  top  of  them,  we've  got  a  perfectly  deadly  man  stay- 
ing with  us.  One  of  that  hopeless  sort  of  people  who  love 
the  rare  better  than  the  beautiful  —  the  kind  that  collects 
postage  stamps  and  gets  pleasure  out  of  them.  Awfully 
like  my  husband  in  every  way,  and  Parkyn  seems  to  think 
he's  found  his  second  self.  A  groat  gardener,  of  course. 
They've  gone  to  Colchester,  and  Dr.  Carbonell's  going  to 
show  him  the  museum.  Carbonell  will  want  to  put  him 
into  a  bottle  or  something,  for  he's  a  museum  specimen 
himself.      However,  my  husband  thinks  he's  charming." 

"  What  a  bore  for  you." 

"  Tell  me  about  Billy.  You  went  to  see  him,  I  know. 
But  I  haven't  heard  again  —  poor  wretch." 

"  Mr.  Seabrook  has  been  down,  too,  and  Emma  wants 
to  go ;  but  William  says  he'll  die  here.  And  he  threatens 
he's  going  to  do  all  sorts  of  dreadful  things  before  he  dies. 
You  know  the  mad  way  he  talks." 

Helena  had  changed  colour  very  visibly  at  this  speech, 
and  Aveline,  whose  heart  was  bursting  with  sympathy, 


THE  SPIDER  231 

observed  It.  But  she  had  spoken  thus  crudely  on  pur- 
pose, as  a  prelude  to  more  startling  words.  She  did  not 
believe  William's  assertions  with  regard  to  Helena  and 
Geoffrey  Seabrook.  She  assured  herself  stoutly  that  it 
must  be  the  lie  of  a  drunken  and  worthless  man ;  but,  per- 
ceiving the  danger  of  such  statements,  she  intended  to 
warn  Helena.  Had  she  believed  the  story,  she  would  not 
have  touched  the  subject;  but  she  did  not  believe  it  and, 
judging  that  loyalty  to  her  friend  demanded  frankness, 
now  spoke.  For  the  situation  embraced  dreadful  possi- 
bilities. If  William  were  indeed  d3ang,  his  brother  might 
visit  hira  at  the  last,  and  since  William  had  openly  prom- 
ised to  do  some  desperate  thing  with  the  fag  end  of  his 
life,  it  was  possible  that  he  meant  an  outrage  at  Helena 
and  Seabrook's  expense.  There  were  hopeful  features  in 
the  story,  for  Billy  had  explicitly  stated  he  did  not  mean 
to  give  Helena  away ;  but  that  was  not  surety  sufficient  of 
the  sick  man's  intentions.  Apart  from  any  other  aspect 
of  the  situation,  Helena's  husband  might  stand  in  physical 
danger  himself,  which  fact  alone  it  was  but  right  that 
Helena  should  know. 

"  You've  got  to  listen  to  me  now,"  said  Aveline. 
"  That's  only  the  beginning.  He  told  me  a  whole  budget 
of  horrible  lies  and  ideas  he's  got.  He's  dangerous, 
frightfully  dangerous,  Helena,  and  though  he  says  he 
doesn't  mean  any  harm  to  you,  he  does  mean  harm  to  your 
husband." 

Helena  looked  relieved. 

"  Don't  you  worry.  I  dare  say  he  hates  Parkyn  — 
that's  natural;  though,  with  all  his  faults,  Parkyn  has 
tried  to  be  a  good  brother  to  him." 

"  It's  more  you  I'm  frightened  for  than  anybody  —  you 
and  Mr.  Seabrook." 

"  Good  gracious,  my  dear  child,  what  d'you  moan?  " 

"  I  mean  he's  saying  —  that  ^Ir.  Seabrook  —  oh, 
Helena  —  that  he's  your  lover.  Emma  begged  him  to 
shut  his  mouth,  but  he  rambled  on,  saying  horrible  things 


2m  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

and  threatening  horrible  things  —  not  against  you,  or 
Mr.  Seabrook  —  but  against  your  husband.  I  think  he's 
mad ;  but  you  ought  to  know.  He  doesn't  mean  any  harm 
to  you,  but  the  mere  fact  that  he  can  say  such  things  to 
me " 

The  other  collapsed.  She  gave  a  low  wail  and  began 
to  cry.     Aveline  went  to  her  and  put  her  arms  round  her. 

"  I  had  to  tell  you,  dearest  Helena.  It  wouldn't  have 
been  fair  not  to  tell  you.  And  I  wouldn't  mind  an  atom 
if  it  was  true  a  hundred  times  over." 

The  other  seemed  to  have  lost  her  senses  for  the  moment. 
She  stared  and  let  her  tears  fall  down  her  face.  She  had 
lost  all  grip.      She  wandered. 

"  God  —  God  —  God !  We  always  bring  in  God,  if 
there's  a  disaster,  or  misery,  or  tragedy  in  the  air,  don't 
we?  When  we're  happy  and  having  a  good  time,  we  never 
mention  Him.  We  say,  '  Oh,  my  God ! '  when  we're  in  a 
mess,  never  when  we're  happy.  It's  true.  I've  got  a 
lover,  and  those  people  know  it." 

Aveline  comforted  her  with  lawless  joy.  A  flame  of 
passionate  sympathy  blazed  up  in  her. 

"  Glory  in  it !  Glory  in  it !  "  she  said.  "  Don't  cry. 
Why  shouldn't  you  love  him?  Wliy  shouldn't  he  love 
you.'*  How  can  either  of  you  help  it.-^  And  I'm  sure 
there's  nothing  to  be  frightened  of." 

"  He  told  you.     You  might  have  been  an  enemy." 

"  He  knew  we  were  friends.  He  thought  I  knew  it  al- 
ready. Cheer  up,  Helena.  Be  brave!  What  does  any- 
thing in  the  world  matter,  if  you've  got  somebody  to  love 
you  and  understand  you.f*  " 

"  Life  seems  to  be  crumbling  and  slipping  away," 
moaned  Helena.  "  Be  loyal  to  me,  Aveline.  Don't  you 
turn  from  me,  child." 

"  Not  for  anything  in  the  world.  You've  always  been 
good  to  me,  and  we  think  alike  a  thousand  ways." 

Aveline  was  prepared  to  serve  Helena  in  any  way  she 
might  suggest;  but  Helena,  heartened  by  this  champion- 


THE  SPIDER  233 

ship,  explained  that  Geoffrey  Seabrook  had  the  matter  in 
hand. 

"  I  can  trust  him  and  he  can  trust  me ;  and  I  worship 
you  for  offering  to  help  me,"  she  said.  "  I'm  not  the  least 
frightened  really,  because  William's  word  is  quite  worth- 
less, and  if  he  attempted  to  insult  me  it  would  be  taken 
from  whence  it  comes  and  be  ignored.  But  my  only  fear 
is  that  Geoffrey  may  be  called  away  to  serve  before  those 
two  are  packed  off  out  of  England,  or  William  dies." 

It  was  dark  before  they  parted,  and  Aveline  set  off 
homewards  in  the  omnibus.  Helena  saw  her  off,  kissed 
her  many  times  before  she  started,  and  declared  that  her 
support  was  the  most  precious,  heartening  and  tonic  fea- 
ture of  a  sad  life. 

"  I  often  longed  to  tell  you,"  she  said.  "  Now  I  see 
how  feeble  I  was  not  to.  Now  I  have  the  blessed  knowl- 
edge that  you  are  on  my  side.  That's  a  tower  of 
strength  to  me,  you  lovely  thing.  You  don't  know  what 
I've  suffered  and  what  my  temptations  were." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  answered  the  other.  "  Exceedingly  well 
I  know." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE    GUEST 

Parkyn  Ambrose,  amid  grave  distractions,  found  time  for 
courtesy  to  his  guest.  Mr.  Wargrave  Mortimer  was  a 
man  from  the  north  of  England,  favourably  known  at 
"  Colneside "  as  a  skilled  horticulturist  and  a  valuable 
customer.  And  now,  on  better  acquaintance,  Parkyn 
found  that  the  gentleman  chimed  pleasantly  with  his  own 
opinions  and  shared  his  general  views  of  life  and  its  obli- 
gations. The  visitor  was  a  man  of  good  means,  but  not 
wealthy.  His  life  embraced  scientific  interests.  He 
busied  himself  with  the  hybridising  of  the  iris  family  and 
brought  with  him  a  gift,  in  the  shape  of  some  new  crosses 
between  Korolkowi  and  Oncocyclus,  which  Mr.  Ambrose 
was  to  propagate  and  put  on  the  market. 

In  person  Wargrave  Mortimer  was  tall,  dark  and  clean 
shaved.  His  face  was  handsome,  but  his  expression  never 
varied  and  his  full  grey  eyes  never  changed.  He  was  de- 
liberate, courteous  and  obviously  a  man  of  refined  in- 
stincts, unrelieved  by  humour.  His  voice  was  well-bred 
and  his  views  amazingly  reactionary.  Even  Mr.  Ambrose 
felt  mild  surprise  to  hear  a  man  ten  years  younger  than 
himself  preserve  the  pre-war  attitude.  But  while  obsti- 
nate and  stiff-necked  in  opinion,  Wargrave  IMortimer 
proved  considerate  in  manner.  He  was  didactic,  but  quite 
prepared  to  give  and  take.  He  listened  to  his  host  and 
they  applauded  each  other  frequently. 

Now  at  the  entrance  to  the  Moot  Hall,  upon  the  morn- 
ing of  the  day  when  Aveline  went  to  see  Helena,  Ambrose 
and  Mortimer  met  Dr.  Carbonell,  and  the  guest,  in  antici- 
pation, thanked  the  doctor  for  his  courtesy. 

234 


THE  GUEST  235 

"  This  is  more  than  kind,  to  devote  time  to  a  stranger," 
he  said. 

"  A  pleasure.  I'm  delighted  to  oblige,  for  one  can't  do 
better  than  serve  a  kindred  spirit." 

But  Carbonell  spoke  without  knowledge,  as  presently 
appeared,  for  the  man  from  the  north  proved  no  kindred 
spirit  to  him. 

Ambrose  left  them  together.  He  was  to  return  and  en- 
tertain them  at  luncheon  some  hours  later. 

"  Here  are  our  heroes,"  declared  the  doctor,  pointing 
to  the  front  of  the  Moot  Hall.  "  Audo,  Audle}^  Gilberd, 
who  tradition  says  gave  Queen  Elizabeth  her  first  electric 
shock,  and  Harsnett." 

Mr.  Mortimer  gazed  up  at  the  stone  figures. 

"  These  do  not  interest  me,"  he  said.  "  Indeed  there  is 
little  here  likely  to  do  so  save  the  ring  of  bells.  I  am  a 
keen  student  of  campanology." 

'•  Then  we'll  go  aloft,"  answered  the  energetic  guide ; 
"  but  you  must  let  me  set  the  pace.  Our  bells  are  very 
fine,  though  not  ancient,  indeed  not  twent}'  3'ears  old. 
We  have  a  gentleman  among  us  who  descends  from  a 
refugee  Flemish  family  which  settled  in  Colchester  during 
Tudor  times.  Flanders,  as  no  doubt  you  know,  is  the  land 
of  bells  and  beautiful  carillons,  or  was  till  the  accursed 
Germans  struck  them  dumb.  Our  friend  has  no  doubt  in- 
herited his  love  of  these  things.  At  any  rate  he  has  writ- 
ten masterly  mottoes  for  the  bells." 

The}?^  ascended  by  slow  stages,  and  when  he  had  got  his 
breath.  Dr.  Carbonell  expatiated  on  the  view  from 
the  tower;  but  the  courteous  voice  of  the  other  cut  him 
short. 

"  I  am  near-sighted,  unhappily,  and  can  see  nothing  to 
interest  me,  though  doubtless  your  view  is  fine.  The  bell- 
chamber  ?  " 

"  Five  bells  we  have,  and  they  sound  '  The  Westminster 
Chimes.'  " 

Mortimer  examined  the  monsters  ranged  in  the  dim  bel- 


236  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

fry.  Then  he  brought  out  his  notebook  and  transcribed 
the  inscriptions. 

"  Great  art  and  sympathetic  understanding  goes  to 
those  verses,"  declared  Carbonell,  and  the  other  agreed 
with  him. 

"  Your  praise  is  well  justified,"  answered  the  visitor,  as 
he  set  down  the  bell  mottoes  in  order. 


"Placed  here  on  high, 

We  serve  the  town, 
Beneath  the  crown. 
Beneath  the  sky. 

II 

Differing  in  size. 

In  note  and  weight, 
Yet,  small  or  great. 

We  harmonise. 

Ill 

With  measured  speech. 
Well-timed  and  true. 
Our  message  due 

We  tell  to  each. 

IV 

Brief,  clear  and  bold 
We  say  our  say, 
And  then  straightway. 

Our  peace  we  hold. 


O  mortal  race, 

Our  lesson  learn; 

Each  has  his  turn. 
And  time,  and  place." 

*'  The  *  crown  '  of  the  first  inscription  is  above  us,"  ex- 
plained Dr.  Carbonell.  "  The  tower  is  surmounted  by  a 
large  crown." 

"  They  are  wholly  admirable  —  perfect  bell  music  and 
masterly  in  their  thought,"  declared  Wargrave  Mortimer. 
"  I  have  read  none  better." 


THE  GUEST  237 

But  though  the  duties  of  the  guide  began  thus  pleas- 
antly, the  agreement  of  the  men  did  not  extend  much 
farther.  Mr.  Mortimer  was  as  full  of  theories  as  the  doc- 
tor, and  their  theories  began  to  clash.  They  differed  on 
technical  questions  respecting  the  Roman  walls ;  they  dif- 
fered as  to  the  Norman  origin  of  Colchester  Castle;  they 
differed  upon  a  multiplicity  of  minor  points  respecting  the 
museum  pottery.  A  courtesy  almost  pitiless  marked 
Mortimer's  contradictions ;  while  the  doctor,  long  accus- 
tomed to  be  regarded  as  the  first  authority  on  all  questions 
of  local  archaeology,  grew  warm.  The  curator  of  the  mu- 
seum supported  Carbonell;  the  visitor  preserved  a  some- 
what biased  attitude.  He  was,  however,  amazed  at  the 
wonderful  wealth  of  the  collection,  and  annoyed  the  local 
antiquaries  by  declaring  that  the  finest  specimens  of 
Roman  glass  and  glaze  should  be  in  the  National  Mu- 
seum. 

•'  Why  ?  "  asked  Dr.  Carbonell.  "  This  is  a  national 
museum  just  as  much  as  the  British." 

"  I  venture  to  think  that  a  parochial  outlook,"  declared 
Mortimer.  "  Where  one  can  see  them  here,  a  thousand 
would  be  privileged  to  do  so  in  London." 

"  You  speak  as  though  Colchester  were  at  the  antip- 
odes," retorted  the  other. 

"  No,  no ;  I  merely  state  a  fact.  Your  marvellous 
riches  are  not  adequately  known.  Take  myself :  I  should 
have  made  this  pilgrimage  3'ears  ago  had  I  guessed  at  the 
treat  in  store.  But  I  think  an  expert  from  headquarters 
would  display  the  collection  and  arrange  it  to  better  pur- 
pose." 

"  I'm  glad  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  replied  the  other. 
"  In  my  judgment  the  arrangement  and  system  are  per- 
fect." 

Imperturbed,  Mr.  Mortimer  continued  his  perambula- 
tion, and  presently,  declaring  himself  fatigued,  we  went 
into  the  air  and  sat  awhile  with  Carbonell  in  the  Castle 
grounds.     Their  talk  passed  to  the  war,  and  here  again 


238  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

the  point  of  view  was  so  diverse  that  the  elder  began 
heartily  to  weary  of  his  task. 

Mortimer,  of  course,  entertained  cut-and-dried  opinions 
upon  the  conflict.  They  were  conservative  and  religious. 
He  spoke  as  one  who  had  said  the  same  thing,  probably  in 
similar  words,  a  great  many  times. 

"  Germany  designed  to  rise  above  the  whole  world,  not 
on  stepping-stones  of  her  dead  self,  along  the  true  and 
only  line  of  progress  for  individuals  or  states ;  but  upon 
stepping-stones  of  other  people's  dead  selves.  No  endur- 
ing success  could  be  supported  on  the  foul  foundations 
of  such  warfare.  But  we  need  a  pure  world  for  honesty 
to  be  the  best  policy  in  it,  and  the  world  is  not  pure,  Doc- 
tor. It  must  be  racked  and  refined  and  drawn  from  the 
lees  for  many  a  century  yet  before  the  ape  and  tiger  in 
man  is  finally  eradicated.  War  is  the  first  and  greatest 
refiner  and  alchemist  of  human  character,  and  our  pro- 
digious war  is  helping  on  the  noble  work." 

To  Carbonell  this  was  cant. 

"  You  astound  me,"  he  answered.  "  Has  reason  no  say 
in  the  argument.''  " 

"  The  war  is  above  reason." 

"  Beneath  it,  surely.  If  reason  had  her  place  in  the 
sun,  this  accursed,  misbegotten  outrage  would  not  have 
happened.  Religion  could  not  stop  it,  but  reason  would 
have  done  so." 

"  Can  you  assert  so  much.''  "  asked  the  other. 

"  Can  you  doubt.''  Put  this  question.  Did  one  man  in 
fifty  thousand  of  the  inhabitants  of  Europe  want  the  war.'' 
Had  there  been  a  public  ballot  of  adult  humanity,  how 
many  would  have  voted  for  it.f*  " 

"  None  would  have  dared." 

"  Exactly !  To  evade  reason  we  have  secret  diplomacy, 
skulking  like  a  reptile  in  the  dens  of  the  Chancellories. 
Religion  was  powerless,  because  impotent,  as  always,  in 
any  vital  question  of  human  welfare.  Education  and  in- 
creasing knowledge  have  reduced  her  to  an  empty  and 


THE  GUEST  239 

barbaric  ornament.  And  reason  was  powerless  for  an- 
other cause:  because  she  is  denied  any  voice  in  human 
affairs,  and  suppressed  by  the  State  itself.  The  State 
knows  that  reason  is  the  deadly  enemy  of  religion,  and  in 
her  blindness  the  State  conceives  an  obsolescent  creed  more 
useful  to  her  than  the  freedom  of  human  thought  that 
reason  demands.  So  the  State  persecutes  reason,  suffers 
religion  to  adulterate  education,  and  attacks  rational 
progress,  just  as  justice  is  attacked  by  the  system  of 
legal  advocacy  under  which  this  nation  groans.  Some 
fool  once  said  that  he  cared  not  who  made  the  laws  of  the 
land  if  he  were  allowed  to  make  the  songs.  Not  till  the 
laity  make  the  laws  will  lawyers  be  put  into  their  proper 
place.  But  this  is  by  the  wa^^  I'm  only  arguing  that 
when  reason  wins  to  the  light,  it  will  drag  diplomacy  into 
the  light  also ;  and  tliat  will  be  a  big  nail  in  the  coffin  of 
war.  War  arises  from  confusion  of  thought ;  and  reason 
is  the  enemy  of  confusion  of  thought." 

The  visitor  listened  without  visible  emotion. 

"  I  find  mj'self  utterly  and  absolutely  out  of  harmony 
with  your  views,"  he  said,  when  the  elder  had  finished. 
"  War  is  a  divine  ordinance.  *  Carnage  is  God's  daugh- 
ter,' as  Wordsworth  so  terribly  and  truly  remarks.  Shall 
you  and  I  contradict  Wordsworth?  The  State  looks 
wisely  to  the  support  of  the  Church,  and  the  Church  is 
doing  magnificent  work  in  the  war." 

He  proceeded  in  a  familiar  strain  until  the  veteran 
could  endure  no  farther. 

"  My  dear  sir !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Leave  it.  I.ct  us 
talk  of  anything  —  pots,  pans,  oysters,  neolithic  man,  the 
procession  of  the  equinoxes;  but  not  of  what  is  present 
and  real  and  vital.  You  choke  me  with  the  dead  breath 
of  the  Middle  Ages.     We  shall  never  convince  each  other." 

"  You'll  never  convince  me,  certainly,  that  reason  is 
more  than  a  walking-stick  for  human  progress.  The 
crutch  must  be  religion,  faith,  childlike  trust  in  One  who 
knows  the  end  from   the  beginning  and  who  suffers  evil 


240  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

for  His  own  purposes.  Your  futile  free  thought  is  like 
the  sea  foam  bursting  on  the  rock." 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  admitted  the  other.  "  We  see  no  great 
mark  of  the  foam's  progress,  because  human  life  is  short ; 
but  ask  the  rock.  It  will  tell  you  that  the  wave  wins  in 
the  long  run.  The  static  goes  down  before  the  dynamic, 
the  dead  before  the  living." 

"  But  the  Rock  of  Ages  will  never  go  down  before  the 
shifting  currents  of  the  human  mind.  Only  Christianity 
holds  the  seed  of  everlasting  life ;  all  else  is  chaff." 

He  ran  on,  and  the  other  tried  irony  and  humour,  but 
to  no  purpose. 

Then  there  rose  in  Dr.  Carbonell  a  measure  of  impa- 
tience, for  he  was  not  a  very  patient  man. 

"  Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "  I  do  honestly  fear  there's 
something  wrong  with  the  drains  in  the  house  where  your 
soul  dwells !  Now  I  must  be  away.  Tell  Ambrose  I 
shan't  join  you  at  luncheon.  I'm  busy  still;  for  an  an- 
cient I  have  much  to  occupy  my  energies.  And  you'll 
both  want  to  talk  gardening,  of  which  I  know  nothing." 

He  rose  and  shook  hands. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  great  courtesy,"  answered  the 
visitor,  smiling  and  bowing  over  the  hand  he  shook.  "  I 
shall  pray  for  you." 

Staggered  by  this  promise,  Carbonell  departed,  secretly 
laughing  at  himself  and  his  own  absurd  impatience ;  while 
Wargrave  Mortimer  presently  joined  his  host. 

He  explained  that  the  doctor  would  not  be  at  luncheon. 

"  I'm  very  much  afraid  my  views  annoyed  him.  He  is 
a  man  of  strong  but  mistaken  feeling.  I  think  he  knew 
I  was  getting  the  better  of  the  argument,  while  he  was 
getting  the  worse  of  his  temper.  An  intelligent  man ;  but, 
like  all  his  class,  prone  to  exaggeration  and  extremes. 
He  reposes  too  much  trust  on  that  faulty  guide:  human 
reason.  We  must  hope  the  Light  will  be  vouchsafed  to 
him  before  the  end." 

"  What  I  always  hope  for  him,  too,"  declared  Mr.  Am- 


THE  GUEST  241 

brose.  "  A  noble  man ;  but  of  course  there  are  none  so 
blind  as  those  who  will  not  see." 

Having  dismissed  the  doctor,  they  turned  to  horticul- 
ture and  passed  an  hour  agreeably  to  them  both.  They 
then  proceeded  to  "  Colneside,"  and  devoted  the  rest  of 
the  daylight  to  the  alpines,  which  enjoyed  the  visitor's 
special  regard. 

"  After  the  iris,"  he  said,  "  the  flora  of  the  granitic  and 
limestone  mountains  has  always  been  my  particular  de- 
light. And  when  you  visit  me,  as  I  hope  next  spring  you 
will,  you  shall  see  how  kindly  your  treasures  have  taken 
to  my  moraines  and  rock  gardens." 

They  wandered  then  where,  on  an  eastern  slope  of 
"  Colneside,"  nigh  the  offices,  there  spread  many  hundreds 
of  frames  filled  with  tiny  plants.  The  alpine  gardens 
themselves  were  built  here  also,  but  the  bulk  of  the  immense 
collection  flourished  in  pots  inserted  in  beds  of  sand. 
Their  glass  houses  were  still  uncovered,  and  the  plants 
enjoyed  the  autumn  sunshine  and  drank  the  nightly 
dews. 

Saxifrage  and  campanula  were  Mr.  ]Mortimer's  special 
interests,  for  they  throve  with  him,  and  now  he  perambu- 
lated the  frames,  notebook  in  hand,  and  expatiated  on 
what  he  saw.  The  enthusiasm  of  the  collector  was  upon 
him,  and  a  gathering  row  of  little  pots  were  set  aside  by 
Richard  Bare,  who  waited  upon  his  master. 

They  came  upon  Philip  Pettikin  at  his  eternal  task  of 
grubbing  weeds,  and  Ambrose  bid  him  approach.  But 
Mr.  Mortimer  made  no  delay  and  revealed  indifference. 
In  fact,  the  human  interest  of  the  aged  Pettikin  did  not 
arride  him ;  perceiving  which  INIr.  Ambrose  dismissed  Pet- 
tikin and  felt  a  passing  regret  that  his  guest  should  have 
found  no  attraction  in  the  venerable  man. 

But  Mortimer  was  generous  enough  of  praise  for  the 
growing  things. 

"  Your  nursery  is  an  epitome  of  the  botanical  world, 
Mr.  Ambrose,"  he  said.     "  Indeed  the  world  itself  is  a 


242  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

nursery  for  that  matter,  and  one  can  push  the  parallel  far 
between  men  and  plants." 

Only  an  hour  or  two  later  Wargrave  Mortimer  as- 
tounded his  host,  and  brought  amazing  incident  into  the 
current  of  Parkyn's  life. 

They  returned  home  in  due  course,  and  it  was  an- 
nounced that  the  guest  must  depart  on  the  following  day. 
Relieved  to  know  it,  Helena  became  gracious  to  him  and, 
before  dinner,  invited  him,  for  the  first  time,  into  her  own 
boudoir.  They  drank  tea  there,  and  Mrs.  Ambrose,  hav- 
ing occasion  to  speak  to  her  husband,  left  the  visitor  for 
a  little  while  alone.  Five  minutes  later  she  returned  to 
find  Mr.  Mortimer  stretched  insensible  upon  the  carpet. 
In  his  fall  it  appeared  that  he  had  carried  away  a  little 
easel  on  which  stood  the  enlarged  portrait  of  Aveline. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

AT    THE    "  king's    HEAD  ' 


Such  an  end  game  as  Geoffrey  Seabrook  designed  and 
hoped  for  his  intrigue,  demanded  a  certain  attitude  in  Wil- 
liam and  a  very  definite  limitation  to  William's  future 
activities.  After  a  second  visit  to  the  sick  man,  whereat 
he  exhibited  friendship,  took  gifts  and  played  listener, 
Geoffrey  perceived  that  Ambrose  was  dying  in  earnest, 
and  desired,  before  he  died,  to  be  revenged  upon  his 
brother  for  many  fancied  wrongs.  This  was  the  situation 
that  he  had  suspected  at  his  first  visit,  and  from  which  his 
inspiration  sprang ;  but  he  was  too  cautious  to  assume  its 
certainty,  or  to  build  upon  the  shifting  foundations  of 
Billy's  ruined  intellect  until  he  satisfied  himself  that  they 
could  be  trusted. 

An  evening  visit  he  paid,  and  brought  a  bottle  of  old 
cognac.  He  explained  how  he  had  spoken  with  Helena 
and  that  she  much  hoped  William  was  better,  and  might 
still  consider  the  idea  of  a  winter  abroad. 

"  He  is  better,  just  a  thought,"  said  Emma,  "  but  it's 
only  a  flicker,  along  of  being  took  care  of  and  lying  in  a 
good  bed,  A  w^eek  ago  he  cried  out  to  rise  and  sleep  in 
a  hayrick;  and  'twas  all  me  and  my  brother  could  do  to 
over-persuade  him.  I  know  how  he  feels,  for  I  feel  the 
same,  and  hunger  for  the  smell  of  hay  and  the  cool  night 
on  your  cheek,  while  your  body's  warm  and  snug.  Billy's 
all  on  going  out  to  '  The  King's  Head  '  to-night,  for  a 
talk  with  the  chaps  and  a  sight  of  a  bar.  He  says  'twill 
be  the  last  time  as  he'll  ever  see  a  pub,  and  he  wants  to 
do  it  while  he's  got  strength.  I  pra\'  him  not  to  for  my 
sake,  but  he  says  that  a  few  more  days,  or  less  days,  don't 

243 


244  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

matter  now.  He's  full  of  wicked  ideas,  and  I  hope  you'll 
calm  him  down.  He's  all  up  against  Parkyn  now,  and  'tis 
a  mercy  he's  beyond  doing  any  harm,  poor  dear,  else  he 
might  have  planned  some  bad  action  and  got  in  the  news- 
papers." 

"  It's  sad  he  feels  like  that.  Pie's  got  a  lot  to  be  thank- 
ful for,  if  you  consider.  That  reminds  me.  Mrs.  Am- 
brose asked  me  to  give  you  this,  Emma." 

He  handed  her  a  five-pound  note. 

"  The  Lord'll  reward  her.  Yes,  we've  had  our  luck. 
What  I  always  said  was,  '  Work  for  your  bread  and  trust 
Gord  for  the  butter  ' ;  but  William  is  like  they  Barnados 
homes  —  trusts  Gord  for  everything.  And  he's  never 
been  disappointed.  He  says  it  ain't  luck,  but  virtue  re- 
warded." 

"  I'll  see  him.  and  try  to  get  him  into  a  better  state  of 
mind." 

Billy  greeted  Seabrook  with  ribaldry,  but  presently 
calmed  down.  He  insisted  on  having  some  of  the  old 
brandy,  and  repeated  his  intention  of  rising  and  presently 
spending  an  hour  at  the  inn. 

"  I  can  very  easily  crawl  there  with  an  arm  on  each 
side.  I  want  to  see  the  boys  once  more  and  drink  a  drop 
from  the  pewter." 

"  You  look  better,  if  anything." 

"  Not  me.  But  there's  a  shot  in  the  locker  yet  —  just 
one.  And  that's  all  I  want.  You  clear  out,  Emma,  and 
let  me  talk  to  '  Moustache.'     Him  and  I  have  got  secrets." 

"  No,  no,"  murmured  Seabrook.  But  Emma  left  them. 
It  was  dusk,  and  she  hung  up  a  blanket  over  the  white 
blind  after  lighting  a  candle. 

"  Mustn't  show  a  blink  of  light  nowadays,  for  fear  of 
they  Zepps,"  she  said. 

"How's  my  blasted  brother?"  asked  William,  as  soon 
as  the  woman  had  departed. 

"  I  don't  think  he  knows  about  your  illness.  Why  not 
write  and  tell  him.''  " 


AT  THE  "  KING'S  HEAD  "  245 

"  Perhaps  I  shall.  But  he  knows  all  right.  His  wife's 
told  him.     And  you  know  he  knows,  for  that  matter." 

"  Indeed  I  do  not.  She  and  I  are  very  much  concerned 
about  you.     She  still  thinks  you  might  travel." 

"  Travel  to  hell.  But  not  alone.  I've  got  ideas. 
Only  you're  such  a  snaky  sort  of  fool.  Ain't  we  birds  of 
a  feather .f*  Why  can't  you  trust  me?  Any  creature 
would  trust  a  dying  man,  surely  ?  " 

"  I  don't  distrust  you,  William.     Why  should  I?  " 

"  It's  like  this :  I  might  do  you  a  bad  turn,  but  as  I  can 
only  do  you  a  bad  turn  with  a  man  I  hate,  because  he's  a 
wicked  scoundrel  —  my  brother,  I  mean  —  there's  no  gain 
to  me  in  doing  it.  I've  no  wish  to  harm  you,  or  Jezebel. 
She's  all  right,  and  a  very  good  friend  to  me.  But  you 
can  help  me,  and  if  you  won't,  then  I  shall  hinder  you. 
That's  all  straight  and  fair." 

"  If  I  can  help  you,  of  course  I  will." 

"  Then  you've  got  to  drop  the  mask  and  not  pretend 
any  more.  You  can't  have  it  both  ways.  If  j^ou're  going 
to  be  the  straight,  God-fearing  Christian  and  try  to  bluff 
me,  I  let  up  on  you ;  if  you  tell  me  you're  a  natural  man, 
up  against  society  and  out  for  j^our  own  hand,  same  as 
I  was,  then  I'll  use  my  fag  end  of  life  to  do  j^ou  a  good 
turn.  I  want  to  know  the  naked  truth  about  you.  I  do 
know  it,  for  that  matter.  But  last  time  you  came  you 
played  about  and  pretended  virtue  and  thought  I  didn't 
see  through  you.  But  I  did.  If  you  can  sa^',  '  I'm  a 
damned  humbug  and  only  pretending,  because  you've  got 
to  pretend  in  this  mean,  lying  world,'  then  I'll  respect  you 
and  put  you  on  to  a  good  thing.  If  not,  I'll  bitch  you  up 
if  I  can,  once  for  all." 

Seabrook  half  expected  this.  He  had  thought  quite  as 
much  of  the  future  as  Billy  had  thought  of  it ;  and  had 
looked  farther  ahead. 

He  nodded  towards  the  door. 

"  Nobod}^  listening,  I  suppose.'*  " 

"  Better  go  and  see." 


24f6  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

He  did  so.  There  were  voices  below,  where  Emma  was 
talking  with  her  brother,  Tom  Darcy.  Then  he  returned 
and  sat  by  WilHam. 

"  Tell  me  what  you  want,  and  if  I  can  help  you  I  will  — 
whatever  it  is." 

"  Now  we're  getting  a  move  on.  But  you've  been  so 
damned  double  all  your  life  that  you  can't  make  your  lips 
confess  it.  I  don't  want  much  from  you  —  only  to  get 
my  brother  to  come  and  see  me.  You  ought  to  be  able  to 
do  that." 

"  Just  to  say  '  good-bye  '  to  him  ?  " 

"  Yes;  and  just  to  start  him  on  the  road  to  the  devil 
first." 

Seabrook's  heart  beat  quicker.  It  seemed  too  danger- 
ously straightforward. 

"  He's  the  elder,"  said  William.  "  It's  right  he  should 
go  first.  I  want  to  have  my  revenge.  I  want  him  to 
know  I've  cut  his  thread.  You're  hearing  me,  ain't  you.'' 
You're  getting  it  in  —  soaking  it  in.^^  I  shall  be  dead  in 
six  weeks,  maybe  less.  But  they  can't  hang  a  dying  man. 
D'you  see  the  game.''  What  do  you  think  of  it.''  Nuts 
for  you.  You  can't  go  to  the  wars  and  be  shot  then,  be- 
cause Jezebel  will  want  you  to  help  a  lone  widow  and  keep 
the  gardens  going.  You'd  be  '  starred,'  and  presently 
you'll  fill  Parkyn's  shoes  and  be  boss  of  '  Colneside,'  and 
Mayor  of  Colchester,  and  the  saviour  of  the  poor,  and 
have  a  marble  statue  put  up  to  you  when  you  go  to 
Heaven.     Good  enough  —  eh  ?  " 

"  Are  you  sane  to  say  such  things  ^  " 

*'  Saner  than  the  three  witches  that  fooled  Macbeth. 
They  wrecked  him  with  tricky  lies  that  looked  like  truth. 
I'm  not  deceiving  you.  I  can  make  your  fortune  if  you'll 
let  me,  and  bring  my  brother  to  my  bedside.  A  plain  deal 
and  a  damned  good  bargain  for  you.  And  well  you  know 
it." 

Mr.  Seabrook  took  a  thimbleful  of  the  old  cognac. 

"  I  must  think  of  it,"  he  said. 


AT  THE  "  KING'S  HEAD  "  247 

"  You  have  thought  of  it." 

"  You're  a  genius.  You're  too  deep  and  subtle  for  me, 
William." 

"  Arcades  amho.  You're  a  bigger  blackguard  than  I 
am,  after  all,  if  3'ou  can  take  this  on.  So  the  rest  ought 
to  be  easy.  Come  back  next  Aveek  and  use  jour  wits  to 
help  me  put  a  touch  or  two  to  it.  I'm  sick,  and  can't  see 
very  clear.  I  orAy  know  that  I  want  to  do  that  chap  in; 
and  as  that  would  pay  you  better  than  any  man  in  the 
world,  I  come  to  you  to  help.  And  you  will.  Call  Emma 
and  Tom.  I'm  going  out  to  drink  now  —  for  the  last 
time." 

"What  about  Emma?" 

"  She's  all  right.  She's  not  a  humbug.  A  saint  of 
God,  that  woman.  She's  terrible  vexed  with  me  for  hating 
Parkyn.  I'll  drop  that  with  her  now.  I'll  pretend  I'm 
going  to  make  a  good  end,  see?  And  so  I  shall  make  a 
good  end.     That  bit  of  fun's  all  that's  left  for  me  now." 

Seabrook  declared  that  he  saw  the  point. 

"  Think  all  round  it,"  he  said.  "  You're  sporting  to 
me  and  I'll  be  sporting  to  3'OU.  Wh}'  make  up  your  mind 
to  die?  Why  not  chuck  this  savage  idea  and  make  up 
your  mind  to  live?  " 

"  I'm  beyond  that.  I  know  I'm  booked.  There's  more 
going  on  inside  me  than  anybody  can  tell  but  me.  You 
needn't  worr}^  j^ourself  about  that.  You've  got  to  thank 
your  luck  that  things  are  as  they  are,  and  the  conse- 
quences will  be  what  the}^  will  be.  See  me  again  and  then 
go  bleating  to  him  and  say  I'm  dying  and  wish  to  see  him. 
But  I  don't  want  to  see  him  yet.  Because  once  he  comes, 
I  must  only  have  enough  life  left  to  put  him  down  and 
out." 

The  other  called  Emma  and  Tom  Darcy,  then  he  bade 
William  good-bye  and  departed. 

Seabrook  walked  all  the  way  home  through  an  autumn 
night.  He  felt  uneasily  elated.  What  puzzled  him  was 
that  his  original  inspiration  should  have  found  such  an 


£48  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

exact  echo  in  the  mind  of  William  Ambrose.  He  had  been 
prepared  to  foment  Billy's  hatred  of  his  brother,  drop 
poison  into  the  cup,  and,  with  the  best  cunning  that  he 
knew,  lead  up  to  the  present  attitude  of  Billy's  mind.  But 
he  came  again  to  find  that  attitude  already  affirmed  and 
developed.  The  sick  man  needed  no  mental  aid  from  him ; 
the  only  aid  he  asked  was  assistance  in  detail.  Geoffrey 
feared  a  plot  that  developed  so  simply  and  surely.  It  was 
much  too  good  to  be  true,  and  he  began  to  search  for  pit- 
falls and  ambushes.  He  intended  to  lie  well  out  of  danger 
himself,  whatever  happened.  He  believed  William  to  be 
sincere,  but  was  ready  to  circumvent  him  if  he  were  not. 
If  he  feared  anybody  it  was  Emma. 

Meantime  Billy  insisted  on  being  dressed,  and  while  his 
friends  got  him  into  his  clothes,  he  bragged  of  the  praise 
that  Seabrook  had  bestowed  upon  him. 

"  He  said  I  was  a  genius  too  deep  for  him.  He  knows 
a  clever  man  when  he  sees  one,  that  chap  does.  There'll 
be  surprises  presently.  I  may  be  grave-meat,  but  I've  got 
a  brain  yet,  and  it's  a  brain  far  out  of  the  common,  and 
always  was,  and  there'll  be  a  bit  of  fireworks  before  the 
last  light's  out ;  and  you'll  live  to  see  and  wonder,  Tom 
Darcy." 

Emma  pressed  him  for  explanations. 

"  Such  a  dark  member  you  grow,"  she  said.  "  What's 
all  this  plotting  and  planning. ?  I  wish  you  could  take 
your  old  point  of  view,  because  it  was  much  more  restful 
and  high-minded." 

"  All  very  good  sense,"  declared  William,  "  and  for  that 
matter,  '  Moustache '  has  been  saying  the  same  to  me. 
You  must  know,  Tom,  that  I've  had  a  lot  to  endure  from 
my  brother,  but  up  to  now  I've  forgiven  the  dog.  And 
now  I've  decided  to  go  on  the  same  way  and  forgive  him 
to  the  end." 

"  A  very  wise  thing  to  do,"  declared  Mr.  Darcy. 

"  We  shall  meet  before  the  finish.  But  not  yet.  I'm 
going  to  forgive  him." 


AT  THE  "  KING'S  HEAD  "  249 

"  You  will  be  talking  as  if  you  was  going  to  die,"  whined 
Emma,  "  and  very  well  you  know  there  ain't  no  call  for 
you  to  die,  if  you'd  only  give  your  mind  to  living.  You 
ought  to  live,  whether  you  want  to  or  don't,  for  my  sake. 
I've  been  a  proper  pal  to  you  and  you've  been  all  the  world 
to  me,  Billy,  and  what's  going  to  come  o'  me  if  you  die?  " 

"  Don't  you  worry,"  he  said.  "  You'll  be  all  right. 
There's  lots  of  fun  for  you  yet." 

"  You  didn't  ought  to  die,"  she  repeated,  "  and  it'll  show 
you  don't  care  a  brass  farden  for  me  if  you  do." 

They  reached  "  The  King's  Head,"  and  the  apparition 
of  William,  long-haired  and  hollow-eyed,  astonished  not  a 
little  those  who  knew  him.  He  was  weak,  and  glad  to  sink 
into  a  corner  by  the  fire. 

"  Wonders  never  cease,"  said  Saul  Rebow,  skipper  of 
the  Peezcit,  who  patronised  "  The  King's  Head." 

"  No  doubt  to  a  chap  like  you  they  never  do,"  answered 
William.  "  But  you  Avasn't  born  at  mushroom  time  all 
the  same,  else  they'd  never  have  called  you  '  Tell-yer-for- 
why.'  Truth  is,  I'm  going  to  be  put  to  bed  with  a  shovel 
before  long." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense,"  said  Mr.  Rebow.  "  You  ain't 
going.  You're  all  right.  You  did  ought  to  have  stuck 
to  the  oysters  for  a  bit." 

They  encouraged  him  and  hoped  he  would  mend.  The 
liquor  flowed  and  a  policeman  came  in. 

"  There's  a  chink  o'  light  showing,  missis,"  he  said,  "  not 
enough  to  make  a  fuss  about,  but  enough  to  swear  by. 
You'll  do  well  to  lower  the  gas  jet  a  thought  and  pull  the 
curtain  closer." 

Emma  spoke  of  an  adventure. 

"  I  see  a  motor-bike  kill  a  cat  this  morning,"  she  said. 
"  Was  on  it  and  over  it  afore  you  could  say  knife.  Cruel 
devils  they  soldiers  on  motor-bikes.  'Twould  have  been 
just  the  same  if  he'd  killed  a  child." 

"  'Twas  thought  very  dangerous  to  kill  a  cat  in  my 
young  days,"  declared  Saul  Rebow.     "  For  that  matter 


250  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

I've  known  it  bring  bad  luck  myself,  though  of  course 
there's  nothing  to  it  really." 

"Who  can  tell?"  asked  Emma.  "There's  a  powerful 
lot  of  things  that  have  a  meaning  to  'em,  and  though  we 
forget  them,  very  like  they  don't  forget  us." 

The  old  woman  behind  the  bar  spoke. 

"  That's  right,  Emma  Darcy,"  she  said.  "  It  don't  fol- 
low because  we  don't  believe  in  'em,  the  things  themselves 
be  gone.  Nobody  believes  in  witches  now ;  but  I  wouldn't 
say  there  was  none  left." 

"  Of  course  there's  witches,"  answered  Emma,  "  and  if 
a  witch  come  in  and  sot  down,  and  you  put  an  open  knife 
beside  her,  she'd  jump  up  again  directly." 

"  There's  wise  women  about  yet,"  admitted  Tom  Darcy. 
"  We've  got  a  hand  on  the  Peewit,  and  his  daughter  a 
while  ago  had  her  knee-cap  off.  Yes,  she  did,  and  went 
lame  for  two  year ;  then  her  mother  bethought  her  of  a 
wise  woman  down  Mersea  way,  and  they  went  to  her,  and 
she  stroked  the  girl's  knee-cap,  and  three  nights  after  it 
flew  on  again!  That's  a  fact,  and  our  mate  would  take 
his  Boible  oath  to  it.  The  same  woman  charmed  ague  out 
of  a  man,  and  the  man's  wife  saw  the  ague  wriggle  out  of 
the  room  like  a  snake,  while  the  man  was  in  a  sort  of  an 
onsensed  state.  And  he  never  had  no  ague  from  that  day 
till  his  death." 

Rebow  nodded  gravely  and  William  jeered. 

"  I  wish  to  God  I  could  find  the  party,"  he  said.  "  Per- 
haps she'd  charm  my  rotten  lungs  away  and  give  me  a  new 
pair." 

"  If  I  knew  where  she  was,  I'd  seek  her,"  declared 
Emma. 

"  She's  dead,"  said  Darcy.  "  But  there's  no  doubt  she 
had  great  powers.  A  more  amazing  thing  was  the  horses 
and  the  carter  and  the  cart.  Good  alive!  Never  was 
such  a  strange  affair,  and  yet  as  true  as  gospel,  for  the 
carter  told  it  again  and  many  heard  about  it.  Four 
bosses  he  had,  and  a  great  wain  full  of  sacks  of  ground 


AT  THE  «  KING'S  HEAD  "  251 

corn.  And  he  couldn't  get  up  a  little  dip  in  the  road. 
The  hosses  sweated  and  he  sweated  and  whipped  and  cussed 
for  all  he  was  worth;  but  nothing  would  make  'em  fetch 
the  top  of  the  hill.  And  by  the  side  of  the  road  was  sit- 
ting the  wise  woman,  in  a  grey  hood  and  gown.  She 
watched  him  for  a  bit,  then  in  a  pause,  when  he  was  tired 
of  using  language  and  the  hosses  were  properly  shivering, 
for  they  knew  they  was  failing  in  their  task,  the  woman 
said  to  him :  '  Don't  whip  the  hosses,  whip  the  wheels, 
master.'  Her  voice,  as  he  said  after,  wasn't  like  most 
women's  voices.  He  was  going  to  laugh,  but  he  looked  in 
her  face  and  that  stopped  him.  And  though  it  seemed 
foolishness  to  do  what  she  bade,  he  done  it  and  lashed  the 
wheels  with  all  his  might,  and  the  waggon  went  up  over 
the  hill  as  easy  as  could  be !  " 

"  Such  mysteries  happen  without  a  doubt,"  confessed 
Saul  Rebow,  "  and  I've  no  patience  with  them  that  laugh 
at  them.  No  man  knows  all  there  is  to  know,  and  though 
I'm  thought  to  have  a  reason  for  most  things,  I'd  be  the 
first  to  confess  that  I  don't  know  the  reason  for  a  tale 
like  that." 

"  Nor  yet  anybody  but  Gord,"  said  Emma. 

William  was  very  quiet.  He  spoke  little,  and  sat  and 
listened  to  the  company.  He  coughed  presently,  though 
the  fit  soon  passed.  He  drank  as  much  as  he  could,  but 
his  silence  affected  his  companions  and  indicated  the 
change  in  him. 

He  rose  half-an-hour  before  closing  time  and  beckoned 
to  Emma. 

"  Get  me  back,"  he  said.  "  Good-bye,  boys.  I  shall 
never  see  a  one  of  you  again,  but  you  won't  forget  me." 

*'  Not  likely,  Billy.  There'll  be  a  good  many  stories 
about  you  going  round  for  years,  I  shouldn't  wonder," 
said  the  landlady. 

"  I'll  give  you  something  to  talk  about  yet  before  I  peg 
out,"  answered  William  Ambrose.  "  And  when  it  hap- 
pens, you  remember  what  '  Old  tel-yer-for-why  '  said  just 


252  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

now.  '  No  man  knows  all  there  is  to  know.'  So  long,  all 
—  till  we  meet  again  in  a  thirstier  place." 

He  went  out,  and  Emma  took  him  slowly  back  to  her 
brother's  cottage;  but  Tom  Darcy  stopped  on  at  the  inn. 

All  agreed  behind  William's  back  that  he  was  a  doomed 
man. 

"  And  none  but  himself  to  thank,  poor  useless  wretch," 
said  Mr.  Rebow. 

They  argued  then  as  to  whether  William  could  have 
helped  his  futile  existence,  or  whether  that  had  been  be- 
yond his  power. 

"  Everything  stood  in  his  favour,  and  very  respectable 
blood  in  his  veins.  So  there's  no  excuse  for  him,"  asserted 
Darcy. 

"  The  man's  a  sport,  so  all's  said,"  explained  Rebow. 
"  There's  sports  in  all  created  things,  and  they  can't  help 
being  sports,  and  'tisn't  for  us  to  judge  them,  because  the 
Lord  wills  them  to  be.  Things  beyond  human  knowledge 
get  mixed  in  with  human  seed.  And  when  you  look  round 
with  seeing  eyes,  you  often  ask  yourself  how  a  man  and 
woman  ever  find  themselves  brave  enough  to  take  a  hand 
in  the  business  of  creation." 

"  They're  beginning  to  feel  that  more  and  more,"  de- 
clared the  landlady.  "  The  bigger  the  wits  the  smaller 
the  family  nowadays.  No  sane  female  wants  to  bear  man 
babies,  in  sight  of  this  war.  Who'd  spend  twenty  patient 
years  of  bringing  up  fine  boys  to  know  they  was  to  be 
blown  to  dust  in  other  folks'  quarrels  at  the  end.^*  You 
ask  the  robbed,  red-eyed  women  about  it  and  list  to  them. 
You  ask  Nancy  Mushet,  who  heard  yesterday  her  Teddy 
had  fallen  —  her  only  one." 

"  Poor  Samuel's  properly  cast  down,"  said  Darcy,  "  and 
so's  the  rest  of  us.  He  was  a  good,  young,  sea-loving 
chap,  but  no  more  made  for  fighting  than  his  father." 

Their  talk  sank  into  gloom,  and  a  few  minutes  before 
closing  time  they  departed. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

aveline's  letter 

On  the  morning  after  the  last  visit  to  Helena,  Aveline  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  her  friend,  and  guessing  that  the  wife 
of  Parkyn  Ambrose  must  have  more  to  say  about  herself, 
put  the  letter  into  her  pocket  until  Peter  had  eaten  his 
breakfast  and  gone  to  "  Colneside."  Looking  back  after- 
wards she  remembered  his  breakfast  talk  was  of  the  army, 
and  his  growing  conviction  that  he  ought  to  join  and  not 
wait  longer  for  the  calling  of  his  Class.  When  he  had 
left  her  she  read  the  letter,  and  having  read  it,  her  mind 
fastened,  as  minds  will,  upon  small  issues,  even  in  the  light 
of  crushing  events.  She  felt  thankful  that  she  had  not 
opened  the  letter  until  Peter's  departure,  and  she  won- 
dered how  long  it  would  be  before  she  saw  Peter  again. 

In  the  very  hour  when  her  secret  was  entrusted  to  the 
bosom  of  Aveline,  Helena  had  been  faced  with  the  former's 
own  more  tremendous  mystery.     Thus  she  wrote  — 

"Manor  House, 
"  West  jNIersea. 

"  My  dear  Child, 

"  An  awful  thing  has  happened  —  awful  for  you 

and  awful  for  me,  because  I  love  you.     Last  night,  soon 

after  my  husband  and  his  friend  returned  home,  Wargrave 

Mortimer,  that's  his  name,  fainted  suddenly  at  sight  of 

3^our  big  photograph  in  my  boudoir.     When  he  came  to 

again,   he    apologised,    and    confessed   that   he   had   been 

physically  upset  by  the  shock  of  an  astounding  likeness. 

Then  he  asked  about  you,  and  heard  things,  and  saw  your 

253 


254  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

pictures  and  —  my  poor,  precious  dear,  you  know,  only 
too  well,  who  he  is. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  girl,  why  didn't  you  confide  in  me,  as  I 
confided  so  frankly  and  freely  in  you?  Every  word  I 
write  bleeds  for  you  and  I  shall  stand  beside  you  against 
the  whole  world.  My  husband  and  yours  are  talking 
privately.  I  don't  know  what  they  are  going  to  do. 
Does  Peter  Mistley  know  the  truth?  If  so,  all  will  be 
well  in  the  long  run.      I  must  fly  to  catch  post. 

"Your  devoted 

"  Helena." 

In  the  moment  of  her  overwhelming  disaster,  with  life  in 
ruins  and  the  cost  of  her  achievements  suddenly  calling 
to  be  paid,  Aveline  kept  her  nerve.  An  attitude  of  mind, 
long  trained  to  this,  enabled  her  to  do  so.  She  had  always 
expected  the  truth  to  appear.  She  was  schooled  to  antici- 
pate disaster  sooner  or  later.  Now  it  fell  as  a  bolt  from 
the  blue,  without  warning,  or  premonition,  as  she  knew 
that  it  would  fall.  Thus  it  was  bound  to  come,  when  it 
did  come. 

In  ten  minutes  the  fact  seemed  familiar  knowledge. 
She  considered  the  immediate  situation.  Her  husband, 
Wargrave  Mortimer,  would  not  approach  her ;  but  he 
might  go  to  "  Colneside  "  with  Parkyn  Ambrose  to  see 
Peter  Mistley.  Or  Ambrose  might  break  it  to  Mistley 
alone.  Probably  Mistley  would  not  believe  it  and  return 
at  once  to  her. 

Within  ten  minutes  of  that  thought,  Aveline  had  left 
her  home.  She  decided  not  to  go  far  off,  but  to  put  her- 
self beyond  Peter's  reach  for  at  least  four-and-twenty 
hours. 

She  had  not  thought  much  yet,  but  knew  that  she  could 
always  think  best  on  paper.  She  went  down  to  Hythe 
therefore,  and,  at  a  sailors'  inn  beside  the  river,  wrote  to 
Mistley.  Her  only  concern  was  with  him.  Her  husband, 
now  that  he  was  in  a  position  to  do  so,  would  divorce  her ; 


AVELINE'S  LETTER  255 

but  for  the  present  she  refused  to  consider  what  action 
Peter  would  take.  As  her  letter  proceeded,  however,  she 
was  called  to  face  the  outraged  man  who  believed  himself 
her  husband,  and  the  extent  of  the  thing  she  had  done  un- 
folded itself  before  her.  Darkness  fell  upon  Aveline  long 
before  she  had  completed  her  confession. 
Thus  she  wrote  — 

"  My  dear  Petes, 

"  I  know  jou  will  read  this.  I  can  write  it  better 
than  I  can  tell  it,  and,  of  course,  I  can't  stop  in  your 
home  any  more  till  you  have  the  whole  story.  I've  done 
an  unspeakable  thing,  and  I  don't  know  in  the  least  yet 
how  I'm  going  to  feel  about  it ;  but  by  the  time  I've  finished 
this  letter,  I  shall  begin  to  feel,  and  after  I've  put  down 
all  the  past  and  dug  up  the  details  for  you,  I  shall  perhaps 
guess  a  little  how  you'll  feel,  too. 

"  One  thing  I'm  not  going  to  do,  and  that  is  excuse  ni}^- 
self.  I  never  will,  Peter.  I'm  bitterly  sorry  for  the  re- 
sult of  what  I  did ;  but  if  I  live  to  be  a  hundred,  or  if  I 
drown  myself  in  a  few  hours,  I  shall  never  be  sorry  for 
the  thing  itself.     I've  passed  that  stage  ages  ago. 

"  My  maiden  name  was  Mary  Houston,  and  I  married 
Wargrave  Mortimer  while  my  widowed  mother  was  still 
alive.  I  married  him  for  one  reason,  to  help  my  mother 
die  in  peace,  knowing  that  her  only  child  would  be  well 
provided  for  and  beyond  all  reach  of  difficulty  and  anx- 
iety. As  though  difficult}'  and  anxiet}-  in  themselves  were 
evils.  Mortimer  was  an  old  friend  of  m}'  father,  who  ad- 
mired him,  '  because  he  had  an  old  head  on  young  shoul- 
ders.' And  I  honestly  thought  I  loved  Wargrave.  I  did 
—  for  all  his  goodness  to  my  feckless  father  —  and  as  I 
was  threatened  with  penury  when  my  mother  should  die, 
and  had  no  near  relations  and  none  who  might  be  expected 
to  feel  a  spark  of  interest  in  a  pauper  orphan  of  twenty, 
it  all  pointed  to  Wargrave.  I  admired  his  probity  and 
honour  and  his  loyalty  to  my  father  (for  whom,  of  course, 


256  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

he  felt  not  even  respect),  and  when  he  made  his  sedate 
approach  I  was  exceedingly  flattered  and,  with  the  igno- 
rance of  a  virgin  mind,  believed  that  I  adored  him. 

"  For  some  time  we  were  what  I  thought  was  contented, 
in  a  twilight  sort  of  way.  Then  I  grew  to  womanhood 
and  found  Wargrave  older  than  his  age,  and  bound  in 
misery  and  iron  under  every  sort  of  social  convention  my 
soul  abhorred.  Disparity  of  temperament  grew  with 
every  breath  I  breathed,  and  misunderstandings  and  sharp 
differences  of  opinion  came  between  us.  He  resented  me 
thinking  for  myself;  he  felt  it  improper  that  I  should 
disagree  with  hira.  When  I  told  him  I  hated  opinions  and 
only  loved  ideas,  he  sent  for  the  doctor  to  see  me  and,  I 
believe,  thought  of  consulting  an  alienist.  But  our  first 
quarrels  were  healed,  and  by  the  time  Mary  Mortimer 
was  two-and-twenty  it  looked  as  though  her  husband  was 
going  to  win. 

"  He  did  not,  however.  He  had  the  defects  of  his 
qualities,  as  we  all  have,  I  suppose,  and  those  defects  of 
narrowness,  censoriousness,  complacency  and  lack  of  sym- 
pathy with  the  limitations,  or  aspirations,  of  other  people, 
went  with  just  the  qualities  that  made  him  a  slow  poison 
for  me.  I  had  no  confidante;  I  was  alone  in  the  world, 
and  his  friends  sided  with  him,  were  sorry  for  him,  had  no 
instinct  for  art  or  liberty,  and  thought  me  a  difficult  and 
obstinate  idiot. 

"  I've  told  you  most  of  this  before,  Peter.  In  fact,  I 
told  you  nothing  that  was  not  true  about  my  husband 
except  the  fact  that  he  was  alive.  To  me  he  was  so  utterly 
dead  after  six  months  in  Colchester,  that  it  seemed  impos- 
sible to  imagine  him  in  the  land  of  the  living;  but  once 
Mr.  Seabrook  spoke  of  Wargrave  Mortimer  to  you,  when 
I  was  in  the  studio,  and  I  went  out  with  a  shudder  down 
my  spine  and  saw  his  ghost  standing  among  the  alpine 
frames.  This  isn't  flippant:  it's  the  truth.  His  name 
carelessly  uttered  by  another  person  seemed  to  bring  him 


AVELINE'S  LETTER  257 

back  from  the  dead.  By  that  time,  of  course,  I  loved  you. 
But  I'll  come  to  that. 

"  When  I  was  twenty-three,  I  decided  to  run  away  from 
my  husband,  and  obliterate  my  personality  and  start 
being  an  absolutely  different  woman  under  a  new  name.  I 
amused  myself  all  last  winter  in  plotting  the  details. 
Ever3'thing  made  it  easy.  I  had  no  relations  who  knew 
me,  but  I  invented  a  friend.  I  created  this  friend  in  Lon- 
don, and  at  a  moment  when  Wargrave  INIortimer  was  also 
going  from  home,  to  see  some  gardens  and  attend  a  meet- 
ing of  antiquaries,  I  said  that  I  meant  to  visit  my  London 
friend.  He  objected  mildly  and  suggested  I  should  go 
with  him ;  but  I  declined,  and  begged  for  the  fortnight  in 
London  —  to  see  pictures  and  hear  some  music.  I  talked 
him  into  believing  it  would  really  be  a  good  thing  for  both 
of  us.  It  was  further  understood  that  we  should  not 
write  to  each  other  during  the  separation,  but  return  with 
sheaves  of  new  experiences.  I  even  pressed  for  a  month 
apart ;  but  this  he  refused :  he  could  not  leave  his  garden 
for  so  long. 

"  I  had,  then,  a  clear  fortnight  to  vanish  into  the  void ; 
and  I  believed  that  would  be  long  enough.  The  thought 
of  this  adventure  made  me  so  amazingly  happy  that  it 
quite  astonished  me,  and  I  began  to  understand  myself, 
and  to  see  that  change  and  incident  and  mental  distrac- 
tions were  vital  to  my  nature  and  health  of  mind.  Liberty 
seemed  the  onl}'  word  in  the  language  worth  speaking;  and 
I  always  felt  it  was,  until  I  met  you.  Then  I  found  what 
was  better. 

"  I  held  a  few  shares  in  stocks,  that  were  left  to  me  by 
my  mother.  They  only  produced  a  wretched  little  twelve 
pounds  every  year ;  but  I  sold  them,  without  telling  my 
husband,  and,  as  a  result,  had  the  glory  of  possessing  two 
hundred  and  twenty-one  pounds  all  at  once.  This  seemed 
boundless  riches.  With  that  sum  I  went  to  London  and 
hurried  on  with  my  plot.     I  bought  mourning,  and  four 


258  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

days  later  came  to  Colchester,  as  a  young  widow.  I  chose 
the  name  of  '  Aveline,'  because  I  had  seen  it  in  a  poem  and 
loved  it,  and  the  name  of  Brown,  because  it  was  a  very 
common  name  and  inconspicuous.  I  chose  Colchester  for 
no  earthly  reason  except  that  I  had  seen  it  on  scores  of 
flower  catalogues  from  '  Colneside,'  and  because  it  was 
about  as  far  from  Shropshire  as  I  could  get.  I  had  meant 
to  stop  there  a  little  while  and  later  on  drift  over  to 
France  or  Italy  if  I  could  do  any  good  with  my  pictures. 
I  came  detached  from  the  whole  world  to  begin  a  brand 
new  life  and,  if  possible,  live  by  art.  Then  I  fell  in  love 
with  you,  and  an  act  that  would  have  been  impossible, 
while  still  the  aura  of  Wargrave  Mortimer  floated  about 
me  and  the  old  values  persisted,  began  to  be  gradually 
possible.  Things  happened ;  I  heard  ideas  spoken ;  I 
began  to  see  that  to  be  married  and  to  be  wedded  are  two 
different  states.  My  mind  enlarged  and,  of  course,  you 
helped  vitally  to  enlarge  it.  I  said  to  myself,  '  You're 
married  and  so  you  can't  marry  again ;  but  you  never  have 
been  wedded,  and  why  should  the  one  dismal  fact  prevent 
you  from  making  the  other  joyful  experiment.'' ' 

"  Of  course,  this  was  muddled  thinking  you'll  say ;  and 
I  ought,  no  doubt,  to  have  considered  all  the  possibilities 
and  social  horrors  of  such  a  pretence.  And  I  ought  to 
have  given  you  a  chance  and  not  deceived  you ;  but  from 
much  you  said  I  believed 

"  No,  I  won't  go  into  that,  Peter.  It's  no  good  trying 
to  explain  what  I  did.  I  hung  on  your  words  and  opinions 
at  that  time,  and  you  contradicted  yourself,  as  everybody 
does ;  and  sometimes  you  were  so  humane  in  your  views 
about  marriage  that  I  had  it  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to 
tell  you ;  and  sometimes  you  were  not,  but  took  rather  a 
severe  standpoint  and  believed  in  discipline  and  self-con- 
trol, and  our  duty  to  society  and  the  need  for  personal 
suff'ering  and  so  on.  And  then  I  thanked  goodness  I 
hadn't  told  you. 

"  You  may  think  it  was  difficult  to  have  deceived  you  so 


AVELINE'S  LETTER  259 

completely ;  but  it  wasn't,  because  I  had  first  deceived 
myself.  I'd  made  believe  so  perfectly  that  Wargrave 
Mortimer  was  just  as  dead  to  me  as  though  I'd  stood  by 
his  grave.  I  had.  I  could  have  told  you  the  names  on 
the  wreaths.  And  what  was  still  more  profound,  was  the 
feeling  that  Mary  Houston  was  dead,  too.  You  must  use 
all  your  imagination  to  grasp  that,  Peter.  You  must 
believe  that  my  old  self  was  as  dead  as  last  year's  flowers. 
It  wasn't  Mary  Mortimer  you  married  —  not  this  man's 
wife,  and  not  Mary  Houston  either  —  but  another  woman 
altogether. 

"  Don't  let  facts  bother  3^ou.  Of  course  there  are  the 
facts  still  —  just  the  wretched,  lifeless  verities  of  the 
situation.  And  you  ought  to  have  known  them ;  but  the 
fear  of  loss  was  too  frightful.  You  see  I  couldn't  hurt 
you  by  not  telling  you  —  not  really  —  not  inside.  It 
wouldn't  have  made  me  different  if  I  had  told  you.  We've 
been  gloriously  happy  together,  and  the  facts  can't  pre- 
vent that.  But  if  you  had  known  them,  perhaps  they 
would  have  prevented  it  and  all  that  priceless  happiness 
would  have  been  lost.  The  facts  didn't  hurt  me ;  but  then 
I'd  weighed  them  and  found  out  how  worthless  they  were ; 
and  even  when  I  knew,  down  in  the  bottom  of  my  con- 
sciousness somehow,  that,  such  as  they  were,  the  facts 
would  some  day  or  other  come  to  light,  I  didn't  care.  I 
often  meant  to  tell  you ;  and  now,  of  course,  I  know  it's  a 
disaster  that  I  didn't,  because  the  truth  must  for  ever 
look  different  to  you  from  what  it  docs  to  me.  But,  if 
you'd  known  the  truth  as  long  as  I  have,  you'd  feel  the 
same  contempt  for  it  as  I  do.  And,  of  course,  the  ques- 
tion now  is,  what  effect  is  the  truth  going  to  have  on  3'ou. 

"  You  must  think  entirely  for  3'ourself  and  not  of  mc. 
I  wouldn't  influence  j'ou  even  if  I  could.  At  least,  I  don't 
think  I  would,  at  this  minute.  There's  a  queer  quality  of 
impassivity  in  me,  Peter,  as  well  as  my  terrific  power  to 
feel  and  enjoy.  Artists  are  like  that.  There's  nobody 
can  be  so  bitterly  hard  as  a  sentimentalist.     It  belongs  to 


260  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

the  head,  not  the  heart.  I've  buried  my  heart  for  the 
minute.  It's  under  the  water  hlies  in  the  mud  at  '  Colne- 
side,'  I  think.  I  can  get  on  without  it,  and  if  you  turn  me 
down,  I  shan't  want  it  again.  And,  if  you  turn  me  down, 
I  shall  never  lose  my  wedded  life  with  you,  or  let  the  ugly 
future  soil,  by  even  a  shadow,  the  beautiful  past.  I'll 
write  you  my  direction  when  I  decide  upon  it,  in  twenty- 
four  hours.  Anyway,  I  don't  know  how  much  this  is 
going  to  hurt  me  yet,  because  I  don't  know  how  much  it  is 
going  to  hurt  you.  "  Aveline." 

Thus  she  wrote,  and,  despite  her  resolute  words,  ended 
her  letter  in  very  profound  gloom.  She  knew,  for  all  her 
expressed  doubt,  exactly  how  much  it  was  going  to  hurt 
him.  She  knew  it  so  well,  that  she  felt  very  small  hope 
that  he  would  forgive  her,  or  condone  the  insult  which  she 
had  offered  a  proud  man. 

She  wrote  also  to  Helena  Ambrose,  but  only  a  line  to 
thank  her  for  the  warning. 

Then  she  posted  the  letters,  and  felt  that  as  her  first 
interesting  moments  at  Colchester  had  been  spent  at  the 
Hythe,  so  would  her  last  hours  in  the  place  be  spent.  "  I 
began  my  life  by  this  river  and  I'm  ending  it  here,"  she 
thought.  Suddenly  she  determined  to  take  the  train  and 
go  to  Brightlingsea.  She  felt  no  desire  to  hide,  or  run 
very  far,  but  was  conscious  of  the  need  to  get  out  of 
Peter's  way  and  leave  him  free  to  consider  her  letter  and 
proceed  as  he  thought  best.  She  determined,  therefore, 
to  visit  Nancy  Mushet,  and  ask  to  be  taken  in  for  a  night 
or  two.     Failing  that,  she  could  go  to  an  inn. 

She  was  stunned,  but  not  crushed.  As  yet  she  had  by 
no  means  grasped  the  situation,  or  the  force  of  its  impact 
upon  Peter  Mistley. 

Aveline  had  never  been  in  the  least  attracted  by  women's 
movements  or  women's  politics;  abstract  justice  she  never 
craved,  and  no  ambition  to  be  insurgent  or  assertive  had 
tempted  her.     General  principles  had  not  inspired  her  at 


AVELINE'S  LETTER  261 

any  time  in  her  life,  and  no  desire  to  be  in  the  van  of 
feminine  progress  ever  kindled  in  her  mind.  She  wanted 
to  be  nothing  but  herself.  She  had  acted  purely  on  the 
impulse  of  a  driving  power  to  get  happiness  at  any  cost. 
She  knew  where  her  strength  lay,  and,  with  married  life, 
soon  found  that  her  good  points  were  utterly  thrown  away 
upon  her  husband,  while  her  weak  ones  were  acutely  per- 
ceived by  him.  Where  she  did  excel,  he  missed  everything ; 
where  she  was  lacking,  he  had  been  quick  to  point  the  fail- 
ure. Therefore,  with  that  resolution  and  courage,  most 
marked  in  those  held  back  by  no  inherited  caution  or  in- 
structed conscience,  Aveline  had  thrown  over  home  and 
husband  and  struck  out,  full  of  curiosity'  and  interest,  but 
without  fear.  And  she  had  found  that  every  hour  away 
from  Wargrave  Mortimer  improved  her  spirits  and  her 
self-respect.  Daily  it  grew  upon  her  to  appreciate  how 
wisely  she  had  acted.  Not  a  shadow  of  remorse  clouded 
the  situation,  because  she  knew  that  Mortimer,  on  his 
more  subdued  plane  of  feeling,  must  be  experiencing  her 
own  comfortable  emotions  of  self-respect  restored,  and 
appreciating  the  distinction  of  freedom  —  its  cleanliness, 
hygiene,  sanity. 

Well  she  knew  that  duty  would  prompt  him  to  a  thor- 
ough search,  that  he  would  leave  no  stone  unturned  and 
proceed  upon  the  impulse  of  a  remorseless  conscience,  long 
hypertrophied  by  inordinate  use. 

Time  passed  and  the  dread  of  being  discovered  grad- 
ually began  to  lull.  Yet  a  sort  of  subconscious  intuition 
always  lurked  in  her  mind  that  the  truth  would  appear. 

"  I've  had  to  vanish  from  a  man  before ;  now  I've  got  to 
vanish  from  a  man  again,"  she  thought.  But  worlds 
separated  the  two  occasions.  Every  rational  instinct  ap- 
plauded her  first  exodus,  and  she  was  conscious  that  not  a 
sane,  unprejudiced  being  in  the  world  could  have  done  less 
than  commend  her  courage  and  applaud  her  purpose ;  but 
Mistley  was  a  very  different  matter.  To  deceive  such  a 
man  and  hoodwink  him  in  a  vital  particular,  rather  than 


262  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

run  the  risk  of  losing  him,  now  appeared  to  be  an  action 
that  nothing  but  success  could  have  justified  even  to  Ave- 
line's  own  nebulous  theories  of  right.  She  had  failed,  and 
until  she  set  her  wits  to  work  and  analysed  the  situation 
from  a  standpoint  outside  right  and  wrong,  until  she 
brought  the  values  of  a  sentient  creature,  non-human,  to 
weigh  the  full  significance  of  her  achievement,  she  suffered 
remorse  and  the  unfamiliar  burning  torment  of  shame. 
Such  emotions  were  unutterably  loathsome  to  her  and  she 
fled  from  them  thankfully  along  such  a  path  of  reasoning 
as  might  be  pursued  by  a  faun,  or  other  mythic  being,  pos- 
sessed of  mind,  but  inspired  by  no  code  more  moral  than 
the  lore  of  holt  and  den,  with  woe  only  for  the  vanquished 
and  success  the  sole  criterion.  So  seen,  the  situation  sad- 
dened, but  did  not  torment  her. 

Of  one  thing  she  was  assured.  She  must  keep  out  of 
Mistley's  sight  for  the  present.  Mortimer  she  would  not 
see  in  any  case;  but  whether  she  would  ever  stand  before 
Peter  again  depended  not  upon  herself,  but  him.  For  the 
time  being  she  was  far  too  excited  to  weigh  what  loss  of 
Mistley  must  mean  to  body  and  soul.  She  knew  that  to 
lose  him  was  to  lose  everything;  but  that  could  not  be 
helped,  or  hindered  by  her.  She  had  acted  too  extrav- 
agantly, had  put  the  man  into  too  false  and  outrageous  a 
position  to  feel  much  hope  that  his  wounds  would  ever  heal. 
The  more  she  considered  his  character,  the  more  convinced 
she  became  that  he  would  forgive  her,  and  try  to  forget  her. 

To  Brightlingsea  she  went,  and  surprised  Nancy 
Mushet  with  her  petition  for  a  bed. 

"  I  want  to  study  the  winter  dawns  over  the  sea,"  she 
said,  "  and  I'd  sooner  far  come  to  you  than  go  to  an  hotel, 
if  you  can  take  me  in." 

She  was  doing  a  kindness  unwittingly,  for  Aveline's  visit 
helped  to  distract  the  mother's  mind  from  her  recent  loss. 
Mrs.  Mushet  agreed  to  the  proposal,  and  it  was  not  until 
later,  when  Samuel  returned  from  work,  that  Aveline 
learned  how  Teddy  had  fallen. 


AVELINE'S  LETTER  263 

Her  instinct  was  to  leave  the  sad  pair ;  but  Nancy  would 
not  suffer  her  to  do  so. 

"  You're  an  understanding  creature,  Mrs.  Mistley,  and 
you'll  feel  for  us,"  she  said.  "  And  because  I  can  speak 
little,  don't  think  I  feel  little.  I'm  worn  out.  I  know  my 
loss,  but  master  hasn't  quite  grasped  it  yet.  A  mother 
feels  it  pang  all  through  her  like  lightning;  with  a  father 
it  moves  slower." 

"  Before  it  happened,"  said  Samuel,  pointing  at  his 
wife,  "  she  used  to  cry  out  against  the  war  and  say  shrill 
things  to  them  that  would  listen;  now  she's  dumb.  The 
bird  shrieks  out  when  it  sees  the  robber  come  to  the  nest; 
but  after,  when  the  stroke  has  fallen  and  the  nest  is  empty, 
then  all's  silent." 

"  Everything's  changed,"  sighed  Nancy,  "  for  3^ou 
naturally  build  the  future  on  the  foundations  of  your  chil- 
dren. And  a  time  comes  when  you  pretty  well  look  at 
everything  through  3^our  children,  or  your  child,  as  we 
did ;  and  then,  when  the  precious  life  is  snatched  away,  all 
your  plans  and  contrivances  and  hopes  and  little  plots  — 
they're  all  done  for." 

"  I  can  very  well  understand  that,"  said  Aveline. 
"  He  didn't  seek  great  things  —  only  to  be  useful  and 
good,"  murmured  the  father. 

The  visitor  found  herself  in  harmony  with  sorrow.  She 
sj'mpathised  and  brought  her  gift  of  imagination  to 
lighten  their  grief.  She  threw  her  mind  into  this,  and  for 
a  time  succeeded  in  putting  her  own  ruined  life  behind  her ; 
but  when  she  went  to  bed,  turned  and  tossed  in  unfamiliar 
surroundings  and  reflected  what  twelve  hours  had  brought, 
she  began  to  esteem  the  size  of  the  disaster. 

Then  she  set  herself  to  diminish  its  bulk  by  taking 
thought,  but  only  lessened  her  sense  of  wrong-doing  with- 
out decreasing  the  eclipse  of  happiness  that  awaited  her. 
It  was  the  loss  of  all  happiness  that  numbed  her  —  that 
and  the  thought  of  the  grief  of  Peter  Mistley.  She  saw 
him  lying  awake,  too. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE    VISIT    TO    WILLIAM 

Through  the  hours  of  night  Aveline's  mind  ran  riot.  For 
a  time  she  fancied  herself  a  creature  hunted  by  remorse- 
less beings,  pictured  herself  driven  out  of  the  gardens  of 
happiness,  as  Eve  from  Eden.  Then  she  laughed  at  her- 
self. No  heroine  was  she  —  no  Eve,  the  tragic  victim  of 
destiny.  Not  archangels  with  flaming  swords  had  driven 
her  out  of  the  home  she  had  won,  nor  was  she  the  plaything 
of  wanton  gods.  She  could  thank  none  but  herself  for  the 
position  she  now  occupied,  and  as  for  the  men  involved, 
she  had  treated  both  as  badly  as  possible.  But  to  regard 
either  as  a  remorseless  being  intent  on  her  destruction, 
Aveline  knew  to  be  ridiculous.  And  her  soul  could  create 
no  Furies. 

Wargrave  Mortimer  had  been  patience  personified. 
Such  complete  failure  to  understand  her  must  have  irri- 
tated most  men  to  madness,  and  taken  shape,  perhaps, 
of  cruelty ;  but  he  was  never  angry  with  her  or  himself. 
Aveline  wondered  how  he  had  been  able  to  explain  the  facts 
to  Mrs.  Ambrose  on  recovering  from  his  faint.  But  then 
she  recollected  his  old  sensitiveness  —  that  their  differ- 
ences should  be  concealed  from  every  eye  —  must  have 
been  largely  modified  when  she  ran  away.  That  was  not 
a  circumstance  he  could  possibly  keep  secret,  and  his  world 
naturally  knew  the  fact  of  her  disappearance.  How  far 
her  flight  had  altered  her  husband  she  could  not  tell;  but 
nothing  would  alter  his  faultless  punctilio,  studied  cour- 
tesy and  self-control.  It  was  his  faultlessness  that  had 
made  him  impossible  to  live  with.  She  had  left  him  for 
his  kindness,  not  his  cruelty ;  for  his  patience,  not  his  tem- 

264 


THE  VISIT  TO  WILLIAM  265 

per ;  for  his  obstinate  resolution  never  to  sink  to  her  level. 
It  was  the  unchanging  crepuscule  of  his  attitude  that 
made  her  fly  to  seek  sunshine  or  storm,  love  or  hate  — 
anything  rather  than  the  uneventful  twilight  in  which  he 
moved  as  complacently  as  an  owl.  To  be  worshipped  and 
scolded  she  could  have  understood,  but  not  to  be  tolerated 
in  all  her  moods,  and  made  hourly  conscious  of  the  gulf 
that  separated  her  from  her  husband. 

Moreover,  she  knew,  better  than  he  did,  what  an  awful 
strain  she  put  upon  him,  and  what  renewed  health  of  spirit 
must  have  returned  to  him  when  the  tension  was  relaxed. 
He  certainly  would  neither  be  cruel,  nor  remorseless.  He 
would  forgive  her  and  then  divorce  her  —  if  his  religious 
opinions  permitted  him  to  do  so. 

That  brought  her  to  Peter.  Fate  had  flung  her  from 
one  self-contained  and  self-respecting  man  to  another. 
But  a  universe  separated  them.  She  had  tried  to  modify 
the  outlook  of  Mortimer  and  failed,  and  although  she  and 
JNIistley  were  very  near  together  and  loved  each  other,  she 
could  not  say  that  they  saw  entirely  alike.  He  was  a  man 
of  deep  feeling  and  sublime  devotion  —  quite  prepared  to 
give  all,  but  only  in  exchange  for  all.  His  love,  so  she  as- 
sured herself,  was  love  of  a  quality  that,  under  certain 
circumstances,  might  turn  to  hate.  It  could  not  stand 
still;  it  could  not  preserve  a  passionless  equilibrium. 
Until  the  moment  of  the  catastrophe  it  had  steadily  grown, 
but  rationally  and  sanely  grown.  He  wanted  her  more 
and  more,  felt  more  and  more  that  she  was  the  complement 
of  his  being,  the  first  joy  and  interest  of  his  life;  but  he 
never  erred  in  the  opposite  direction  from  Mortimer ;  he 
was  never  uxorious,  or  silly,  or  dependent  upon  her  for 
any  addition  to  his  existence  not  fairly  in  a  wife's  gift. 
She  had  always  respected  him  and  known  that  he  was  more 
to  her  than  she  could  be  to  him. 

She  had  studied  him  with  flashes  of  intuition  and  made 
discoveries.  As  many  another  woman,  she  had  found  that 
a  man's  opinions  harden  after  marriage  if  the  marriage  is 


266  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

successful,  and  loosen  if  it  be  a  failure.  She  had  hoped 
and  expected  that  his  exceedingly  tolerant  and  charitable 
attitude  to  sex  relations  would  expand  after  marriage 
until  it  might  be  possible,  at  some  future  date,  to  tell  him 
the  truth  without  fear  of  destruction ;  but  the  reverse  had 
happened.  Firm  in  his  own  experience  of  a  marriage 
relation  more  perfect  than  his  fondest  dream,  Mistley  had 
found  his  respect  for  the  institution  increase.  He  had,  in 
fact,  grown  more  conventional,  and  more  impressed  with 
the  opinion  that  was  oftener  crowned  with  success  than  he 
had  been  led  to  suppose. 

Yet  he,  too,  would  be  reasonable.  He  would  remem- 
ber many  things  that  she  had  said,  and  her  unconcealed 
dislike  of  the  marriage  bond. 

"  In  fact,"  thought  Aveline,  "  they  are  birds  of  a  feather 
in  some  ways,  though  so  radically  different,  and  they  will 
flock  together,  and  go  through  with  it,  and  discuss  the 
catastrophe  like  gentlemen.  They  will  spare  me,  for 
neither  could  bully  a  woman.  They  will  leave  me  to  the 
last;  and  when  they've  decided  what  they  are  going  to  do 
about  it,  they  will  write  to  me." 

She  was  not  flying  from  them :  she  was  flying  from  her- 
self. She  had  flown  from  the  self  created  by  Mortimer; 
and  now  she  must  fly  from  the  self  created  by  Mistley. 
The  remorseless  and  pitiless  ones,  by  all  rule  of  morals  and 
right  tragedy,  should  lie  in  Aveline's  own  bosom.  She 
sought  them  and  failed  to  find  them.  She  suff'ered,  how- 
ever, and  strove  to  discover  wherein  the  suff*ering  lay. 

She  learned  that  what  hurt  her  vitally  could  only  hurt 
as  long  as  she  allowed  it  to  do  so.  The  sense  of  loss  and 
temporal  disaster,  the  destruction  of  a  precious  home,  and 
the  fact  that  the  man  who  had  taught  her  to  love  was  prob- 
ably for  ever  lost  —  these  thoughts  awakened  suff"ering 
enough ;  but  there  was  a  deeper  discomfort  and  darkness 
behind  the  temporal  pain  and  grief.  If  she  allowed  this 
discomfort  and  darkness  to  conquer  her,  then,  said  she  to 
herself,  "  I  am  done  for.     But  I  won't  —  I  won't  —  for  if 


THE  VISIT  TO  WILLIAM  267 

I'm  going  to  do  that,  I  may  as  well  throw  up  the  sponge 
and  kill  myself.  The  question  is  whether  what's  left  after 
the  crash  is  worth  keeping;  and  that  entirely  depends  on 
how  I  look  on  what  I've  done." 

If  she  were  to  confess  crime,  then  all  was  over,  and  what 
spiritual  life  lay  before  her  would  not  be  worth  living. 
The  sequel  to  admission  of  guilt  could  only  be  along  the 
road  of  remorse,  followed  by  expiation,  self-sacrifice, 
atonement  and  a  cheerless  end,  lightened  by  religious  as- 
surances that  ultimate  peace  with  her  Maker  might  be  re- 
garded as  reasonably  assured.  She  shuddered  at  such  a 
picture.  It  was  out  of  harmony  with  her  temperament 
and  convictions.  She  reasoned  rather  that  only  chance 
had  wrecked  her,  and  that,  if  her  good  fortune  had  held, 
she  would  never  have  suffered  a  qualm. 

"  It  may  be  below  good  and  evil,  or  it  may  be  above 
good  and  evil,  but  that's  how  I'm  going  to  look  at  it,"  she 
thought,  "  because  it's  madness  for  a  person  like  me  to 
think  of  it  in  any  other  way.  What  I  have  done  was  the 
same  last  week,  when  I  was  the  happiest  woman  in  Eng- 
land, as  it  is  to-night.  So,  if  I'm  ashamed  to-night  of 
what  I  did,  though  I  was  never  ashamed  before,  then  I'm 
a  coward.  And  I'm  not  built  to  be  a  coward,  whatever 
else  I  am." 

She  judged  herself  sternly,  however,  and  ignored  the 
long  struggles  sustained  before  she  deceived  Peter ;  she 
also  put  away  the  past  temptations  to  confess,  and  the  flit- 
ting throbs,  never  wholly  absent  from  her  heart,  after 
their  false  wedding.  But  knowing  these  trifles  only  ob- 
scured the  issue  now,  she  dismissed  them  and  tried  to  bring 
the  problem  to  principles.  To  whine  about  having  done 
wrong,  would  be  just  as  feeble  as  to  whine  about  good  luck 
suddenly  turned  to  bad.  She  was  the  same  woman  to- 
night as  the  day  before,  neither  better  nor  worse,  and  what 
she  had  to  bring  herself  to  own  was,  not  sorrow  for  what 
she  had  done,  but  sorrow  that  it  had  been  found  out.  Be- 
cause discovery  must  make  the  man  she  loved  unutterably 


268  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

miserable.  That  was  certain.  He  was  too  logical  to  feel 
any  personal  disgrace,  or  nonsense  of  that  sort ;  but  he 
was  too  human  and  too  proud  not  to  suffer  very  bitterly 
from  the  fact  of  her  deceit.  He  would  argue  that  a  love 
capable  of  stooping  so  low,  could  not  be  the  fine  emotion  he 
had  conceived  as  representing  Aveline's  attitude  to  him. 
There  lay  the  peril  that  was  going  to  wreck  the  future. 
Her  distrust  of  him  would  be  the  unforgivable  thing.  She 
knew  his  character  well  enough  to  be  sure  of  this.  Per- 
haps she  herself  could  never  have  loved  a  man  weak  enough 
to  condone  what  she  had  done  —  what  she  had  done  out 
of  a  selfish  fear  that  the  truth  would  rob  her  of  all  she 
most  desired.  She  had  been  a  coward,  though  she  had 
just  assured  herself  she  could  never  be  that. 

As  her  mind  began  to  tire,  it  weakened  and  told  her 
falsehoods.  She  said  to  herself  that  Mistley  had  made  her 
—  created  her  as  completely  as  he  had  created  his  gar- 
dens.    But  this  pretence  her  intellect  scorned. 

"  If  he  had,"  she  thought,  "  I  shouldn't  be  in  this  fix 
to-day.  It  was  the  vital  spark  in  myself  that  I  never 
showed  him,  and  never  yielded  to  him  when  I  yielded 
all  the  rest  —  it  was  just  the  evasive,  unmoral,  callous 
thing  that  is  the  intrinsic  Me  —  that  has  done  for  me 
now." 

From  abstractions  her  mind,  grown  very  weary,  de- 
scended to  concrete  details,  trivial  and  futile.  She  won- 
dered if  Mortimer  and  Mistley  would  shake  hands  when 
they  met.  Even  lesser  trifles  obtruded  to  annoy  her  at 
their  jarring  impropriety.  She  was  like  one  mourning 
beside  a  grave,  who  suddenly  laughs  at  the  incongruous 
behaviour  of  a  stray  cat.  Her  mind  played  the  fool  with 
her. 

If  Aveline  slept  at  all,  it  was  after  the  late  dawn  had 
broken,  and  she  expressed  contrition  to  Nancy  Mushet 
on  descending  from  her  room  at  ten  o'clock  next  day. 

"  You'll  never  see  the  sun  rise  at  that  rate,  Mrs.  Mist- 
ley." 


THE  VISIT  TO  WILLIAM  269 

"  I  slept  badly,  but  not  because  I  wasn't  comfortable. 
I'm  in  trouble.  It'll  straigliten  itself  out  all  right. 
Things  look  worse  in  the  dark." 

"  I  heard  what  may  interest  you,  just  now,"  said  Mrs. 
Mushet.     "  That  poor  creature,  William  Ambrose " 

"Not  dead?" 

"  No,  but  worse.  Tom  Darcy  called  for  my  husband 
this  morning  on  the  way  to  the  Hard.  William's  going 
pretty  fast,  he  thinks." 

"  Poor  Emma !  " 

"  Yes,  she'll  feel  it  for  a  time.  Tom  hopes  that,  when 
he's  gone,  she  may  change  her  ways  and  become  a  respect- 
able woman."  , 

"  Nothing  like  misery  to  make  people  respectable,  Mrs. 
Mushet.  I  think  I'll  go  and  see  Emma.  I  like  her  — 
she's  a  good  sort." 

Aveline  had  still  withheld  her  direction  from  those  who 
might  desire  to  know  it ;  but  she  wrote  to  Peter  INIistley 
now,  and  explained  that  any  letters  would  reach  her  at 
Samuel  Mushet's  home. 

She  visited  Emma  and  found  her  in  distress. 

William  was  getting  weaker  fast,  and  the  veil  began  to 
thicken  between  him  and  the  living.  Little  by  little  it 
grew  denser,  and  Emma  knew  that  he  would  soon  be  cut  off 
from  her.  She  struggled  to  get  back  to  him,  as  all  strug- 
gle to  get  back  to  the  dj'ing  the}^  love ;  but  invisible  hands 
came  between.  Moreover,  William's  interest  had  dwindled 
to  a  point,  and  that  she  did  not  understand.  Grief  was 
increased  by  fears,  for  though  his  mind  was  clear  by  day, 
at  night,  while  he  suffered  most  and  passed  from  restless 
waking  to  restless  sleep,  he  shouted  sometimes,  murmured 
threats,  and  laughed  at  coming  events  that  revealed  them- 
selves in  the  wild  scenery  of  his  dreams. 

"  There's  things  hidden,"  declared  Emma.  "  He  got 
quiet  yesterday  and  called  for  a  pencil  and  paper  and 
made  up  some  verses.  Once  or  twice  I've  known  him  to 
make  rhymes  before.     The  cleverness  of  that  man;  and 


270  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

now  he's  on  the  edge  of  his  grave  and  full  of  secrets  — 
secrets  from  me !  " 

"  I  expect  it's  only  because  he's  so  ill,"  said  Aveline. 
"  He  has  no  secrets  really  —  only  fancies  them." 

"  He's  got  his  knife  into  Gord  now,"  declared  the 
mournful  woman.  "  He  makes  my  flesh  creep ;  and  yet 
there's  sense  in  it.  For  it's  no  good  His  calling  Hisself  a 
Gord  of  love  if  He  don't  show  it.  Everybody  keeps  shout- 
ing out  He's  a  Gord  of  love  —  to  keep  their  own  silly 
spirits  up  against  the  war,  I  reckon.  But  'andsome  is  as 
'andsome  does,  '  Grey  Eyes.'  My  heart's  breaking,  and 
what's  the  good  of  Gord's  love  to  me  if  He's  going  to  wipe 
out  William?  We're  told  to  let  men  see  our  good  works, 
not  hear  about  'em.  Well,  why  don't  Gord  let  me  see  a 
bit  of  His  love?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Aveline.  "  Oh,  Emma,  I'm  in  an 
awful  fix  myself." 

A  sudden  impulse  overmastered  her  to  tell  Emma  Darcy 
what  she  had  done  and  where  she  stood.  Then  William 
hammered  on  the  floor  over  their  heads  and  Emma  ran  up 
to  him. 

A  moment  later  Aveline  was  called  to  come  up,  and  she 
ascended  and  stood  beside  the  bed  of  the  sick  man. 

Earth,  impatient  to  win  back  this  scrap  of  itself  and 
restore  it  to  sweet  and  wholesome  matter,  extended  its  sub- 
stance over  the  perishing  creature,  obliterated  what  was 
greater  than  earth  and  left  him  all  clod.  But  the  fires  of 
mind  still  burned  subdued.  Indeed,  his  brain  proved  sin- 
gularly clear  and  his  speech  coherent  and  lucid.  He  was 
at  his  best.  Aveline  told  them  about  herself  almost  reck- 
lessly and  in  sudden,  senseless  hunger  for  sympathy.  For 
a  moment  even  Emma  forgot  her  own  sorrows  and  grew 
round-eyed  at  the  revelation.     William  grinned  quietly. 

"  You're  one  of  us,"  he  said.  "  I  always  knew  you 
were." 

He  cut  to  the  root  of  the  thing. 

"  You're   a   bigamist.     You've  broke   the   law   of   the 


THE  VISIT  TO  WILLIAM  271 

land.  They  can  lock  you  up  for  years  if  they  like.  A 
good  sporting  run  for  your  money  —  eh?  Hard  luck, 
though.  You  loved  him  and  he  loved  you  —  the  real  thing 
on  both  sides,  if  Chance  had  only  let  3'ou  both  alone.  Is 
he  going  to  let  'em  lock  j^ou  up?  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  that,"  said  Aveline. 

Billy  chuckled. 

"  And  yet,  come  to  think  of  it,  you  did  basely,  young 
'  Grey  Eyes.'  It  weren't  love  —  not  the  high  sort  of  love 
of  the  Code.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  Code  —  the  thirty- 
one  articles?  I  dare  say  not.  But  there  was  such  a  thing. 
And  the  first  article  says  that  the  accident  of  marriage  is 
no  plea  against  love.  So  you're  all  right  so  far.  But 
then  there's  another  commandment,  that  you  oughtn't  to 
love  where  you  can't  ask  in  marriage.  The  Code,  of 
course,  means  the  man,  but  it  holds  for  the  woman,  too, 
if  she's  going  to  take  the  bit  in  her  teeth  and  make  the 
running,  same  as  you  have.  You  couldn't  marry  him,  so 
you  shouldn't  have  loved  him  —  see?  " 

"  I  didn't  want  to  marry  him,  I  wanted  to  wed  him,"  she 
answered.     "  You  told  me  the  difference." 

"  And  you  ought  to  have  told  him.  You  ought  to  have 
found  out  whether  he  could  rise  to  your  heights  —  whether 
he  was  worthy  to  belong  to  our  tribe  of  people." 

"  You  will  soon  find  out,"  said  Emma. 

"  Not  now,"  explained  William.  "  He  can't  feel  the 
same  now.  He  can  never  feel  the  same  to  her  again,  be- 
cause she  didn't  trust  him.  She  diddled  him  into  marry- 
ing her,  and  he'll  feel  a  damned  fool ;  and  that's  tlie  hardest 
thing  of  all  to  forgive  from  a  man  to  a  w'oman." 

Emma  was  sanguine. 

"  The  man  ain't  born  that  wouldn't  forgive  her  blessed 
eyes,"  she  said. 

"  All  depends  what  your  love's  built  up  on,"  answered 
William.  "  The  first  chap  was  nought  to  her,  body  or 
soul.  The  second  chap  was  all  right.  But  only  soul  is 
lasting.     I    know    that  —  now    my    body's    gone.     Most 


272  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

women  think  the  only  thing  is  to  give  their  bodies,  and 
that's  the  highest  masterpiece  of  love.  But  the  knowing 
sort  very  well  understand  their  bodies  are  the  least  pre- 
cious of  all  their  goods.  A  clever  woman  often  feels  glad 
that  a  man  can  be  so  easily  satisfied.  She  knows  that  a 
man  who  holds  her  flesh  the  precious  thing  isn't  the 
type  never  to  tire  of  her.  But  the  other  sort  of  friendship 
is  better  worth  while,  and  always  worth  while.  The  soul 
friendship,  I  mean.  Always  worth  while  —  when  a 
woman's  got  a  soul.  So  many  haven't.  That's  where 
Emma  and  me  score." 

"  That's  all  very  fine,"  said  Aveline,  "  but  you  can't 
separate  a  woman's  soul  from  her  body  like  that,  William. 
Can  you,  Emma.''  It  sounds  all  right,  but  it  ish't  true. 
A  man  may  sneer  at  his  body  when  he's  tired  of  it,  because 
a  man's  soul  and  his  body  are  always  two  different  things ; 
but  a  woman's  soul  and  body  are  not  —  never." 

"  We're  interested  in  our  bodies,  if  we're  proper  women, 
to  our  dying  day,"  confessed  Emma.  "  Yes,  if  it's  only  to 
pity  'cm,  and  cry  over  'em  and  remember  what  they  was 
like  once." 

William  showed  interest. 

"  If  you  both  say  so,  it  may  be  true,"  he  admitted.  "  A 
man  don't  bother  about  his  skin  and  bones  after  a  certain 
time.  He  only  wants  to  keep  one  inside  t'other  as  long  as 
life's  worth  while.  And  there's  lots  of  women  different 
from  you  two.  You're  built  of  much  the  same  clay. 
When  I'm  dead,  '  Grey  Eyes,'  and  Emma's  left  on  her 
lonesome,  you  can  keep  friends  with  her." 

"  I  will,"  said  Aveline ;  "  whatever  happens,  I'll  be 
Emma's  friend  as  long  as  I  live." 

"  And  I'll  be  yours,"  promised  Emma. 

"  You  won't  have  much  of  a  time,"  prophesied  William. 
"  You're  built  on  a  pattern  that  never  does  have  much  of  a 
time;  still,  you  can  be  pals  and  cuss  the  world  together. 
You've  got  the  craft  and  Emma  has  got  the  sense,  so  you 
might  help  one  another  along." 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE    POINT    OF    VIEW 

Parkyn  Ambrose  arrived  unusually  early  at  "  Colneside  " 
on  the  morning  following  Mr.  INIortimer's  discovery.  He 
was  very  grave,  for  he  found  himself  confronted  with  a 
most  painful  task.  There  could  be  no  shadow  of  doubt 
that  Wargrave  Mortimer  was  not  mistaken.  He  had  de- 
sired to  see  Peter  Mistley  at  once,  and  proposed  doing 
so,  but  Ambrose  begged  for  time.  It  was  arranged,  there- 
fore, that  Parkyn  would  break  the  truth  to  Peter  and 
invite  him  to  meet  Mortimer  afterwards.  When  IVIistley 
answered  his  master's  summons,  he  found  him  in  his  pri- 
vate office  alone,  and  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  shake 
hands. 

Then  he  made  him  sit  down. 

"  I  am  faced  with  a  very  terrible  task,  Mistley,"  he 
said.  "  It  is  m}^  duty  to  break  to  you  some  appalling 
news.  I  am  bound  to  say  no  word  can  be  too  strong  for 
it,  and  if  I  did  not  know  you  were  a  man  of  great  strength 
of  character  and  also  physically  powerful,  I  could  not 
trust  myself  to  do  it.  You  have  to  suffer  a  terrible  shock 
—  a  thing  almost  beyond  belief.  And  I  have  undertaken 
the  task  of  bringing  you  this  dreadful  news,  because  I  felt, 
as  a  friend  and  one  who  honours  and  respects  you,  that 
none  could  do  it  with  more  feeling." 

Peter  stared. 

"  I  am,  of  course,  assuming  you  are  wholly  ignorant 
of  the  facts  —  have  no  suspicion  of  them  ;  but  my  unfortu- 
nate guest,  Mr.  Wargrave  INIortimer,  doubts  this.  He  be- 
lieves it  impossible  you  cannot  know.  Do  you  associate 
the  name  of  Wargrave  Mortimer  with  Mrs.  Mistley.''  " 

273 


274  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  The  client  who  came  to  see  the  studios  ?  Of  course 
not,  Mr.  Ambrose." 

"  You  never  heard  anything  of  an  unconventional  or 
egregious  character  concerning  Mrs.  Mistley's  situation 
in  the  world  before  you  married  her  ?  " 

Mistley  flushed. 

"  What  are  you  saying  —  what  are  you  saying?  Who 
is  this  man  and  what  does  he  dare  to  suggest  about  my 
wife?" 

"  I  was  right,"  answered  the  other,  "  and  I  knew  that 
I  must  be  right.  But  that  makes  my  task  the  more  pain- 
ful —  far  more  painful.  Brace  yourself,  my  dear  fellow. 
The  lady  you  believe  to  be  your  wife  is  not  your  wife.  She 
is  another  man's  wife  —  Wargrave  Mortimer's  wife. 
Last  night  he  came  across  her  portrait  and  fainted  from 
emotion.  As  I  remarked  to  Mrs.  Ambrose,  it  must  have 
taken  a  great  deal  of  emotion  to  make  such  a  self-con- 
tained man  become  unconscious.  He  furnished  details  of 
an  intimate,  remorseless  character.  The  dates  are  all 
consonant  also.  He  recognised  her  water-colour  draw- 
ings, too,  from  their  peculiar  style.  In  fact,  not  a  loop- 
hole of  doubt  exists." 

Peter  had  turned  pale.     He  stared  at  the  speaker. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,  Mr.  Ambrose.  It's  unthinkable. 
Nothing  but  her  own  words  would  make  me  believe  it." 

"  I  am  bound  to  say  it  is  unquestionably  true.  It  is, 
however,  quite  right  that  you  should  not  take  this  terrible 
story  on  my  word  alone.  Mrs.  Ambrose  feels  no  doubt 
whatever.  She  wept  half  the  night.  Woman-like,  she  is 
not  withholding  her  support  even  under  these  harrowing 
conditions.  At  such  times  logic  fails  and  reason  falters. 
In  fact,  my  wife  has  gone  so  far  as  to  say  she  loves  the 
erring  girl  better  than  ever.  Such  loyalty  is,  I  imagine, 
impossible  to  the  male,  even  if  it  were  desirable,  which  it  is 
not.  The  safety  of  society  rests  with  the  male,  not  the 
female,  as  some  thinkers  erroneously  imagine.  Morti- 
mer, of  course,  wishes  to  see  you.     His  attitude  is  un- 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  275 

friendly,  because  he  harbours  a  suspicion  that  j^ou  knew 
the  truth  and  must  always  have  known  it.  Therefore  he 
doesn't  think  you  can  be  a  good  man,  but  quite  the  con- 
trary. He  will  be  at  the  ]Moot  Hall  at  noon,  and  you  had 
better  go  and  hear  what  he  has  to  say.  He  shows  no  de- 
sire to  visit  the  lady." 

"  I  will  see  my  wife  at  once,"  answered  Peter.  "  I'm 
sorry  you  should  have  been  called  to  this  dreadful  busi- 
ness, and  I  thank  you  for  the  way  you've  done  it.  I  can't 
say  more  now." 

"  I  appreciate  your  fortitude,"  declared  Mr.  Ambrose. 
"  And  don't  forget :  the  INIoot  Hall  at  twelve  o'clock. 
Mortimer,  having  seen  you,  proceeds  to  London  to  take 
the  necessary  steps.  One  can  realise  without  difficulty 
what  he  has  been  called  to  endure  during  the  past  3'ear." 

Mistley  went  out  and  hastened  homeward.  His  reason 
prompted  him  to  believe  what  he  had  heard ;  his  experience 
of  Aveline  as  wife  refused  to  believe  it.  And  3'et,  when 
he  considered  her  insurgent  ideas  upon  some  subjects,  her 
indifference  to  fundamental  rules  of  what  men  understood 
by  honour,  and  her  ready  inclination  to  question  most  ac- 
cepted dicta,  he  could  not  deny  that  she  might  have  done 
this  thing.  There  was  her  love  of  him  to  cry  out  against 
it.  That  she  loved  him  with  all  her  heart  he  knew  well 
enough.  But  how  much  did  he  know  of  her  heart's  com- 
position? Little  things  came  to  his  mind  as  he  returned 
home:  trifles  that  yet  lent  their  colour  to  the  disaster:  the 
picture  on  the  catalogue,  her  aversion  from  being  photo- 
graphed, her  frank  dislike  of  alpine  plants. 

He  began  to  dread  to  meet  Aveline;  but  the  moment  he 
found  that  she  was  gone,  a  frantic  desire  to  see  her  mas- 
tered him.  That  she  should  not  be  there  spoke  more  for- 
cibly than  Parkyn  Ambrose  of  the  truth.  She  had  left  no 
message,  but  on  her  little  writing-desk  was  an  open  en- 
velope directed  to  her  in  Helena's  handwriting.  He 
learned  that  Aveline  had  left  home  nearly  two  hours  before, 
and  doubted  not  that  she  had  taken  a  train  to  London. 


276  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

It  was  too  soon  to  meet  Wargrave  Mortimer,  and  Peter 
went  into  his  garden  and  walked  up  and  down  in  it.  The 
space  was  small,  and  at  every  fifty  paces  he  had  to  turn. 
He  tramped  for  an  hour,  then  it  began  to  rain  and  he  went 
indoors  to  his  study.  The  significance  of  what  had  hap- 
pened steadily  ground  itself  into  him.  Great  upheavals 
made  a  volcanic  country  of  his  mind.  He  forgot  what 
had  happened  in  between  and  pictured  life  without  Aveline. 
To  go  back  again  to  the  emptiness  of  his  previous  existence 
promised  annihilation. 

He  kept  his  appointment  and  found  Wargrave  Morti- 
mer waiting  for  him.  It  was  a  curious  meeting ;  but  they 
took  it  without  any  sign  of  outward  emotion,  and  bowed 
to  each  other. 

"  If  you  will  follow  me,"  said  Mistley,  "  I  can  bring  you 
to  a  quiet  eating  house,  where  we  shall  be  out  of  earshot 
of  everybody  and  can  talk." 

"  There  is  not  much  to  be  said  between  us,  I  imagine.  I 
should  wish  to  ask  a  few  questions ;  but,  of  course,  you 
are  not  bound  to  answer  them." 

"  I  have  no  secrets.  At  first  every  instinct  protested. 
But  one  isn't  dead  to  reason.  I'm  afraid  it's  true  enough. 
I  returned  home  to  find  her  gone.  No  doubt  she  will 
write." 

"  Don't  be  too  certain  of  that." 

Presently  they  sat  in  the  seclusion  of  a  little  chophouse 
where  Mistley  was  known.  They  took  a  corner  to  them- 
selves. 

"  I  will  ask  you  first  if  you  knew  the  truth,  or  if  you 
did  not,"  began  Mortimer.  "  Naturally  our  attitude  to 
each  other,  or  at  any  rate,  my  attitude  to  you,  depends 
on  that.  I  mean  that  if  you  can  tell  me  that  you  did  not 
know  that  Mary  Mortimer  was  a  married  woman,  I  will 
believe  you." 

Instinctively  Peter  began  to  hate  this  man. 

"  I  understood  that  she  was  a  widow." 

"  Then  I'm  only  less  sorry  for  you  than  I  am  for  my- 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  277 

self.     Whatever  your  feelings  may  have  been  to  her,  this, 
of  course,  must  entirely  alter  them." 

"  You  can  leave  my  feelings  out.  We  needn't  preach  to 
each  other.  The  only  question  for  me  is  what  you  design 
to  do." 

"  You  surprise  me,"  answered  Wargrave  Mortimer, 
and  he  showed  his  surprise.  "  I  should  have  thought  my 
action  must  be  obvious.  But  I  speak  hastily.  Forgive 
me.  I  have  to  remember  that  you  cannot  yet  weigh  the 
full  significance  of  what  has  happened.  Therefore, 
though  the  shock  of  coming  face  to  face,  as  it  were,  with 
this  misguided  woman  last  night  was  very  great  and  com- 
pletely upset  my  nervous  control,  it  cannot  have  been 
worse  than  the  shattering  blow  you  have  had  this  morning. 
You  believed  you  had  married  a  widow,  and  discovered 
that  you  have  been  living  with  a  married  woman.  If  you 
are  a  Christian,  as  I  have  no  reason  to  doubt,  then  I  can 
understand  that  your  mind  must " 

"  Nothing  of  that  matters,"  said  Mistlcy. 

"  In  the  sense  that  you  are  innocent,  it  doesn't  matter ; 
but  you  must  feel  it  tragically.  It  is  worse  —  far  worse 
than  a  death.  And  we  know  that  a  death  only  filters  into 
the  mind  slowly.  By  God's  mercy  the  human  brain  is 
built  in  that  way  —  only  to  take  in  a  great  trouble  by 
inches.  You  don't  realise  yet  what  this  appalling  woman 
has  done,  or  what  she  has  called  on  me  to  suffer  in  the 
past  and  you  to  suffer  in  the  future.  I  loved  her  de- 
votedly, Mr.  Mistley.  I  did  everything  a  refined  and  re- 
ligious man  could  do  to  make  her  life  happy,  useful  and 
contented.  But  owing  to  faulty  upbringing,  her  faith 
in  religion  was  never  well  and  truly  grounded.  I  could  not 
undo  the  bad  work  of  the  past  —  one  of  the  bitterest  dis- 
coveries to  me,  for  I  had  felt  sure  that  I  could.  She  did 
not  tell  me  that  she  was  going  to  leave  me,  but  vanished 
out  of  my  life  in  a  moment,  completely  and  utterly.  My 
grief  and  dismay  were  profound.  I  left  no  reasonable 
means  untried  to  discover  her,  but  failed.     One  clue  led  the 


278  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

authorities  to  suspect  that  she  had  gone  to  Canada.  But 
they  were  mistaken.  A  certain  woman,  who  resembled 
Mary  superficially,  was  traced  to  Ontario,  but  never 
found,  though  I  spent  much  money  on  the  search.  She 
went  out  of  my  life  for  ever;  but  not  out  of  my  prayers. 
I  could  not  tell  whether  she  was  a  sinner,  or  the  victim  of 
some  terrible  circumstances  beyond  her  power  to  control. 
Now,  however,  we  know,  too  well,  where  we  stand." 

Mistley  regarded  the  speaker  with  his  straight  stare. 

"  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  say  what  she  may  have  told 
you  regarding  the  past,"  continued  ]Mortimer,  "  nor  need 
you  tell  me  anything  unless  you  wish  to  do  so." 

"  She  told  me,  what  I  doubt  not  was  the  truth  in  every 
particular  save  one,"  answered  Peter.  "  She  said,  of 
course,  that  her  husband  was  dead." 

"  And  upon  that  lie  lured  you  into  a  fancied  union  — 
the  sacrament  of  marriage." 

"  Yes.     You  were  only  dead  to  her." 

"  I  was  not  dead  to  her !  I  was  far  less  dead  to  her 
than  she  was  to  me.  Is  it  possible  you  are  going  to  excuse 
her?" 

"  No  —  I  am  not  excusing  her.  We  must  look  all 
round  it." 

"  For  my  own  part,  I  have  determined,  after  due  con- 
sideration, to  divorce  my  wife.  Understand  that  I  recog- 
nise no  spiritual  divorce.  With  my  views  and  as  a  Chris- 
tian, spiritual  divorce  is  impossible,  and  I  shall  never  marry 
again.  But  I  owe  it  to  the  community  and  to  my  own 
social  convictions  to  separate  myself  legally  from  this  un- 
fortunate sinner.  I  take  it  that  she  will  pass  out  of  your 
life  also,  having  abused  your  life  in  a  manner  that  puts 
her  beyond  the  pale.  No  just  man  can  condone  such  an 
unspeakable  outrage  with  all  its  degrading  details  of  un- 
truth and  immorality " 

"  Leave  that.     You  needn't  judge  her." 

"I  am  the  last  to  judge  her.  And  for  your  guidance, 
should  you  be  at  all  concerned  for  her  future,  I  may  tell 


THE  POINT  OF  \^EW  279 

you  that  I  shall  see  she  does  not  want,  or  be  led  into  temp- 
tation from  need.  A  greater  than  you,  or  I,  said  to  a 
kindred  woman,  '  Go  and  sin  no  more.'  Can  we  say  less.'' 
Her  destiny  is  hidden  from  us,  or  why  she  was  permitted 
to  cross  our  paths.  But  this  much  I  can  assure  you.  If 
she  seeks  to  live  honestly  henceforth  and  atone,  as  far  as 
possible  for  the  past,  I  will  take  care  that  she  suffers  no 
temporal  troubles." 

He  looked  at  his  watch. 

"  I  do  not  think  there  is  more  to  be  said.  My  train  will 
leave  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  My  address  will  be  the 
Western  Hotel  for  the  next  few  days.  Write  there,  if 
necessary.  You  have  my  deepest  sympathy  and  my 
support.  And  you  will  spare  a  little  from  your  own  dis- 
tress for  me.  I,  too,  have  been  through  dark  waters.  By 
the  way,  I  trust  there  are  no  complications.''  Forgive  me 
for  mentioning  a  subject  so  delicate.  You  know  to  what 
I  allude?" 

"  No ;  nothing  of  that  sort." 

"  So  much  the  better.  The  future  of  a  child  brought 
unlawfully  into  the  world  is  dark." 

"  In  England,  yes." 

"  We  cannot  go  beyond,  or  behind.  Divine  law,  and  woe 
betide  the  nations  that  do." 

He  extended  his  hand,  but  Mistley  could  not  take  it.  He 
bowed,  and  the  other  flushed  at  the  slight.  Then  he  went 
out  and  Peter  saw  him  no  more. 

He  was  conscious  of  an  impulse  which  sprang  of  this 
meeting  —  an  instinct  to  champion  Aveline  against  this 
just  man.  He  felt  not  at  all  sorry  for  Wargrave  Morti- 
mer ;  nor  had  the  stranger  at  all  surprised  him,  for  his 
wife's  description  of  him  —  a  portrait  completed  in  many 
conversations  —  had  been  correct  and  not  exaggerated- 
Peter  remembered  how  he  had  been  astonished  sometimes 
that  Aveline  could  speak  so  pitilessly  of  the  dead.  Now 
he  understood.  It  was  easy  enougli  to  forgive  Aveline  for 
leaving  Mortimer:  the  difficulties  began  after  that,  and  the 


280  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

thing  that  tore  his  heart  was  her  distrust  —  not  of  her 
husband,  but  of  Mistley  himself.  For  the  moment  he 
could  not  understand  why  she  had  not  found  his  love  all- 
powerful  and  worthy  of  complete  trust. 

But  this  aspect  of  the  case  was  pointed  out  to  him  before 
he  received  Aveline's  letter.  For,  after  having  seen  the 
last  of  her  husband,  Peter,  desiring  speech  with  another 
man,  yet  aware  that  neither  Ambrose  nor  any  at  "  Colne- 
side "  could  speak  wisdom,  bethought  him  of  Dr.  Car- 
bonell.  They  had  long  been  acquainted,  for  Peter's  family 
was  known  to  the  old  man,  and  he  entertained  regard  for 
him  and  friendship  for  Aveline. 

Craving  for  companionship,  Mistley  waited  until  Car- 
bonell's  luncheon  hour  had  passed,  perambulated  in  the 
Castle  grounds  until  it  was  two  o'clock,  and  then  called  at 
the  doctor's  house. 

The  ancient  was  busy,  as  usual.  He  plunged  straight 
into  conversation  as  he  shook  hands,  and  proceeded  as 
though  he  and  the  visitor  were  already  in  the  midst  of 
discussion. 

"Have  you  ever  thought  of  Essex  in  Domesday.?"  he 
asked.  "  Of  course  you  haven't.  But  I  can  assure  you  it 
was  very  different  from  now.  Domesday  Book  shows  that 
our  marches  had  few  trees  —  perhaps  none  —  where  our 
forests  stand  now.  How  to  prove  it.''  Out  of  Domesday 
itself.  Our  pastures  were  thick  with  sheep.  Swine  are 
not  mentioned.  Now  swine  in  Domesday  mean  forest  — 
always  forest.  They  won  their  sustenance  from  the  trees 
and  the  undergrowth  of  trees.  But  here  are  no  pigs, 
hence  no  woods.     Proof  positive !  " 

"  You're  getting  on  with  your  book  ?  " 

"  Slowly." 

"  I've  had  a  Doom's  day  all  to  myself.  I'm  in  awful 
trouble.  I  wonder  if  I  may  trespass  on  your  time,  for  old 
times'  sake.''  One  couldn't  bring  the  thing  to  anybody 
else  in  the  world  but  you.  But  you're  a  humanist,  and 
your  outlook  isn't  blurred  by  any  religious  predilections. 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  281 

You  judge  facts  by  themselves,  not  by  their  appearance 
in  the  light  of  established  laws,  or  doctrines." 

"  What  an  iconoclast  j^ou'd  make  me !  But  the  older 
you  get,  the  more  patient  you  get,  Peter,  and  the  more 
disposed  to  give  credit  to  the  general  outlook,  and  pardon 
our  clumsy  shifts  to  make  the  world  a  better  place.  That 
is,  speaking  generally,  of  course.  Criticism  mellows  as 
the  fires  abate.  What  I  ascribe  to  wickedness  in  middle 
age,  in  old  age  I  credit  to  stupidity.  We  are  still  mostly 
fools  and  therefore  to  be  forgiven.  I  speak  in  rather  a 
contrite  mood,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  for  only  yesterday  I 
lost  my  temper  with  a  man  and  haven't  apologised  yet. 
But  I  must.  A  friend  of  Parkyn  Ambrose  —  a  most 
worthy  person  by  the  name  of  Wargrave  Mortimer." 

"  You  won't  be  able  to  say  you're  sorry  unless  you 
write  to  him.     He's  left  Colchester." 

"  Has  he?  A  chastening  type  of  the  good  man  —  born 
good  —  a  thief  of  virtue.  Born  good,  but  good  for  what? 
Who  shall  say?     What  did  you  think  of  him?" 

"  I  have  just  left  him  under  very  peculiar  circum- 
stances." 

"  There  is  something  left  out  of  all  of  us,  Peter,  else 
you'd  get  perfect  people,  which  is  absurd.  You  can't 
have  goodness  without  badness,  and  badness  is  the  salt  of 
life,  though  goodness  must  be  the  staple.  For  the  evolu- 
tion of  morals  is  luckily  upwards.  At  least  one  thought 
so,  until  we  saw  Germany  at  war  in  the  twentieth  century. 
It's  the  gift  of  most  rogues  to  make  friends.  The  right 
down  bad  man  generally  has  friends,  who  will  do  or  die  for 
him ;  but  not  the  flagrantly  good  man.  Now  go  ahead. 
What's  the  matter?  Here  I  chatter  and  vou  are  in  trou- 
ble." 

Dr.  Carbonell  listened  while  the  other  told  him  what 
had  happened. 

"  One  can't  sa}'  much  till  I  hear  from  her,"  he  con- 
cluded. 

"  Do  you  feel  sure  you  will  hear  ?  " 


282  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  Yes,  I'm  sure  of  that.  I  know  she  was  happy  with 
me.  You  can't  deceive  a  man  over  a  fundamental  thing 
like  that,  if  he  loves  a  woman.  She's  been  happy  even 
knowing  what  she'd  done.  I  don't  blame  her  for  leaving 
him  and,  God  knows,  I  don't  blame  her  for  caring  for  me ; 
but  if  she  had  loved  me  as  I  thought  she  did,  could  she  have 
done  this?  Could  a  woman  really  value  a  man  and  treat 
him  so?  Friendship  would  hesitate  at  such  a  deception, 
how  much  more  love." 

"  There  is  only  one  sort  of  pure  friendship,"  said  Dr. 
Carbonell,  who  thought  for  some  moments  before  speaking. 
"  Only  youth  makes  real  friends  and  pours  itself  out  in 
unalloyed,  selfless  friendship.  Adult  friendship  has  al- 
ways got  a  pinch  of  dross  in  it  —  even  the  friendship  that's 
magnified  into  love.  Grown-up  friendship  soon  withers  if 
any  strain  be  put  upon  it.  Y'our  wife  is  like  all  young 
things.  She  has  the  natural  instinct  towards  happiness 
born  in  her,  and,  in  her  case,  an  individuality  strong 
enough  and  headstrong  enough  to  put  happiness  before  all 
else.  She  fought  with  her  own  weapons  and  escaped  from 
an  environment  that  was  destroying  her.  She  loved  you 
with  all  her  heart,  don't  doubt  that ;  but  she  could  not  tell 
what  effect  the  truth  would  have  had  on  your  love  for  her, 
and  that's  where  her  weakness  came  in,  or  her  feminine  in- 
stinct. The  deceit  wouldn't  have  been  possible  to  some 
characters :  it  was  to  hers.  The  woman  who  could  run 
away  in  secret  from  her  first  husband,  could  also  lead  you 
to  suppose  you  were  marrying  a  widow.  She  felt  that  if 
you  knew  the  truth  she  must  lose  you  sooner  or  later,  be- 
cause, doubtless,  she  would  have  supposed  that  to  live  with 
you  unmarried  was  merely  sowing  the  wind  before  being 
called  to  reap  the  whirlwind." 

Thus  the  old  man  erred  in  his  estimate  of  Aveline;  but 
the  error  was  hidden  from  Mistley.  The  argument  looked 
sound.     He  nodded. 

"What  follows?  "  asked  the  doctor. 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  283 

"  I  have  to  look  into  my  own  heart  for  what  follows," 
granted  Mistley.  "  I  have  to  ask  myself  whether,  had  I 
known  the  truth,  I  should  have  demanded  that  the  truth 
was  made  known  to  her  husband  and  everybody." 

"  Exactly.  As  you  had  offered  marriage,  the  woman 
could  not  well  have  suggested  free  love  without  running  a 
pretty  fair  risk  of  losing  you  altogether.  We  have  hardly 
reached  that  social  stage  yet.  And  if  she  had  told  3'ou 
the  truth,  you  could  not  have  married  her  till  all  was 
known  and  j^ou  had  enabled  her  husband  to  divorce  her 
according  to  the  law's  disgusting  requirements.  Of  course 
altering  her  name  was  nothing.  That  wouldn't  have  in- 
validated the  marriage.  You  marry  a  woman,  not  a  name. 
The  law  looks  for  the  individual.  Why,  her  handwriting, 
or  the  print  of  her  thumb,  is  far  more  important  than  her 
name,  and  rightly  so.  We  exalt  mere  names,  as  though 
they  were  essentials  of  organism.  She  trusted  to  luck, 
and  the  luck  failed.  It  comes  back  to  the  bed-rock  ques- 
tion whether  she  could  have  won  you  in  any  other  way. 
Of  course  there  were  far  more  important  things  to  con- 
sider than  winning  3'ou.  But,  with  her  peculiar  bent  of 
mind  and  will  to  happiness,  she  wouldn't  see  an3'thing 
more  important  than  winning  you.  I  don't  excuse  her,  be- 
cause she  knew  that  your  happiness  depended  upon  it,  and 
did  what  her  conscience,  however  educated,  must  have  told 
her  was  wrong.  And  yet,  perhaps,  that's  not  fair  to  her 
either,  since  we  don't  know  how  her  conscience  was  edu- 
cated." 

"  Her  father  was  weak,  I  fancy  —  evidently  a  muddler 
in  money  matters  and  a  foggy  thinker  altogether." 

"  That  you  might  expect." 

"  But  her  mother  was  different.  She  liked  her  father 
better  than  her  mother." 

"  You  will  hear  from  her,  you  say.  Well,  let  it  go  until 
you  hear.  It's  a  shattering  thing  and  I'm  awfully  sorry. 
But  keep  your  nerve,  though  there's  no  need  to  tell  j'ou  to 


284  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

do  that.  It's  honestly  hitipossible  to  judge  a  human  char- 
acter and  doubtfully  just  to  blame  anybody.  We  are  too 
complex  and  too  much  at  the  mercy  of  our  ancestors. 
We're  just  beginning  dimly  to  realise  how  difficult  it  is  to 
allocate  responsibility  —  difficult  and  increasingly  danger- 
ous. For  the  strain  of  life  tightens  on  each  successive 
generation,  and  at  present  we  are  bound  about  by  outworn 
laws  that  become  increasingly  unfitted  to  control  us.  Out- 
worn creeds  die  the  death  and  outworn  laws  should  do  the 
same.  To-day  we  are  under  the  heels  of  the  lawyers,  who 
have  the  best  possible  reason  for  leaving  the  law  alone. 
But  they  must  move  presently.  Pessimists  say  man  un- 
learns as  fast  as  he  learns,  and  that  none  of  his  conquests 
are  held  so  strongly  that  he  can  be  certain  of  not  losing 
them.  That's  nonsense.  Evolution  doesn't  go  back  — 
not  even  the  evolution  of  morals.  It's  certain  that  a  thou- 
sand of  the  regulations  of  dead  men  are  unseemly  and  inde- 
cent to-day,  and  do  not  meet  our  needs  and  self-respect. 
But  it's  also  certain  that  man's  a  conservative  by  nature, 
and  those  whose  ancestors  made  the  laws  —  those  who  still 
find  they  don't  pinch  —  hang  back  and  only  move  on  com- 
pulsion from  those  who  are  pinched.  It's  time  the  State 
had  a  spring  cleaning,  and  I  hope  the  Church  and  the  Law 
will  get  a  scrub,  too.  They  need  it.  Perhaps,  after  the 
war  we  shall  speed  the  social  machine,  if  Labour's  con- 
tented with  anything  less  than  a  revolution.  Good-bye 
for  the  moment.  Well,  you  know  I  am  ready  and  willing 
to  help  you,  if  it's  in  my  power.     Where  is ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  yet.  I  hope  she'll  tell  me  when  she 
writes." 

"  She'll  leave  the  future  to  you,  I  fancy.  Has  she 
friends  who  are  likely  to  influence  her?  " 

"  Mrs.  Ambrose  is  fond  of  her,  and,  of  course,  knows 
about  it." 

"  At  least  a  charitable  woman,  though  whether  her 
charity  arises  from  affectation,  self-interest,  or  convic- 
tion, I  can't  say.     Probably  a  blend,  as  in  most  cases." 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  285 

They  parted  at  Carbonell's  front  door  and  Peter  Mist- 
ley  went  home. 

He  did  not  expect  to  hear  from  Aveline  until  the  fol- 
lowing morning;  but  her  letter,  written  at  the  Hythe, 
reached  him  by  a  late  post  that  night. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

THE    REVOLVER 

Geoffrey  Seabrook  conducted  the  master  achievement 
of  his  life  with  all  his  energies  and  spared  nothing,  since 
upon  success  depended  his  future.  The  position  was 
curious,  because  at  first  he  continually  found  himself  cal- 
culating without  the  necessary  premise.  It  seemed  not 
strange  that  he  should  sometimes  forget  it ;  but  the  con- 
dition for  which  he  Avorked  and  the  end  he  designed  de- 
manded to  be  kept  in  sight:  otherwise  it  was  impossible 
to  proceed  to  the  best  advantage.  He  had  to  grasp  the 
fact  that  fruition  meant  two  men  dead,  who  were  still  in 
the  flesh.  One,  indeed,  neared  his  natural  end  very  fast, 
but  the  other  was  in  full  strength  and  vigour,  with  the 
affairs  of  life  at  flood  and  no  hint  or  suspicion  of  the  fate 
lying  in  store  for  him.  And  the  mechanical  operation  of 
Seabrook's  mind  tended  to  make  him  forget  that  on  a  day, 
now  swiftly  drawing  near,  Parkyn  Ambrose  would  be 
dead,  with  all  the  interests  that  he  controlled  at  the  mercy 
of  his  fellow-men.  There  was  danger  to  the  last,  and 
until  the  moment  when  Ambrose  entered  his  brother's 
death-chamber  there  could  be  no  abandonment  of  Sea- 
brook's  attitude. 

Now  he  sought  his  employer  for  an  interview.  He  did 
not  fear  the  issue,  since  Helena  had  already  sounded  her 
husband  on  the  subject;  but  Ambrose  knew  not  the  days 
of  his  brother's  life  were  running  out  so  swiftly. 

Geoffrey  Seabrook,  therefore,  begged  for  some  words, 
and  Parkyn  listened. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I'm  not  taking  a  liberty,"  began 

286 


THE  REVOLVER  287 

the  draughtsman.  "  If  I  am,  please  stop  me  at  once,  sir, 
for  it  is  the  last  thing  I  should  dare  to  do." 

"  I  have  no  fear  on  that  score." 

"  I  do  feel  fear,  because  I  refer  to  other  affairs  than 
my  own  —  sacred  affairs,  in  a  manner  of  speaking.  A 
long  time  ago  now  I  met  Mr.  William  Ambrose  and  Miss 
Darcy.  And  a  few  days  ago  I  met  Emma  Darcy  again, 
and  to  my  surprise  she  stopped  me.  She  was  not  beg- 
ging, and  seemed  in  very  great  distress.  She  asked  me  to 
give  you  a  message,  and  I  said,  of  course,  that  such  a 
thing  would  be  improper,  and  that  she  should  try  and  get 
permission  to  come  before  you  herself.  But  nothing 
would  convince  her  that  3^ou  would  allow  her  to  speak  to 
you.  Upon  that  subject,  of  course,-  I  could  not  speak. 
She  then  begged  me  again  to  take  a  message,  and  I  an- 
swered that  it  depended  upon  what  the  message  might  be. 
She  spoke,  and  I  found  that  she  referred  to  Mr.  William 
Ambrose.  She  fears  he  cannot  live  very  much  longer. 
She  told  me  that  he  had  greatly  changed,  and  was  most 
anxious  to  do  what  he  could  to  atone  for  the  past.  I 
begged  her  not  to  go  into  anything  that  did  not  concern 
me.  I  kept  her  to  the  point.  Mr.  William  has  seen  a 
clergyman,  and  the  clerg^mian  found  him  anxious  to  make 
peace  with  the  world,  and  before  all  else  with  you.  The 
clergyman  was  to  write,  and  when  Emma  Darcy  told  me 
that,  I  said  that  nothing  more  need  be  done.  However, 
she  urged  me  so  strongly,  and  seemed  to  think  it  so  doubt- 
ful that  you  would  forgive  Mr.  William  sufficiently  to  see 
him  again,  that  I  had  to  promise  to  mention  it.  But  I 
hope  you  will  not  feel  I  have  taken  too  much  upon  myself 
in  repeating  what  the  poor  creature  said.  I  could  not 
choose  but  pity  her." 

"  You  exercised  your  usual  tact,  Seabrook.  I  am 
bound  to  say  you  were  right.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  am 
going  to  Brightlingsea  to  take  leave  of  my  unhappy 
brother  and  assure  him  of  my  forgiveness.  I  am  very 
glad  to  do  so.     I  had  decided  before  receiving  the  clergy- 


288  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

man's  letter.  I  go  down  on  Thursday  afternoon,  at  four 
of  the  clock." 

"  Then  I  need  do  nothing  more?  " 

"  Nothing  whatever,  thank  you,  except  to  keep  the  cir- 
cumstances private.  A  man  of  your  good  feeling  will  not 
need  to  be  told  what  the  life  of  my  brother  has  been  to  me ; 
and  knowing  me,  you  do  not  need  to  be  told  that  I  have 
done  all  an  elder  brother  could  do  to  retrieve  the  position. 
However,  I  failed.  Isn't  it  true,  by  the  way,  that  Mrs. 
Mistley  —  so  to  call  her  —  is  at  Brightlingsea?  I  could 
not  ask  your  colleague,  but  understood  from  Mushet  that 
she  was  there." 

"  Yes,  she  is  there.  Mrs.  Ambrose  told  me  so  yester- 
day, when  she  called  here  and  just  missed  you.  I  think 
Mrs.  Ambrose  was  going  to  see  her." 

Parkyn  frowned. 

"  I  trust  not.  I  cannot  believe  that  would  be  wise. 
However,  that  is  no  problem  for  you.  I'm  bound  to  say 
this  unfortunate  affair  has  caused  me  very  great  pain  on 
Mr.  Mistley's  account.  By  God's  will  the  imposition  was 
brought  to  light  in  my  home.  One  can  only  be  heartily 
sorry  for  all  those  involved." 

"  A  terrible  thing.  I  should  never  have  thought  a 
woman  could  live  with  such  a  secret." 

"  Her  duplicity  is  no  doubt  astounding.  It  argues 
something  quite  unfinished  and  primitive,  the  callousness 
of  a  savage.  And  all  concealed  under  culture  and  femi- 
nine charm." 

"  I  used  to  feel,  somehow,  there  was  more  about  her 
than  met  the  eye,"  ventured  Seabrook.  "  I  remember, 
before  his  engagement  was  announced,  telling  Mistley  I 
believed  that  from  a  sort  of  furtive  and  suspicious  air 
that  she  might  be  hiding  something.  Of  course,  after- 
wards, I  felt  very  sorry  I  had  said  so." 

"  No  doubt  you  were  right,"  answered  Ambrose. 
"  When  at  Brightlingsea,  I  may  possibly  visit  her,  but 
only  if  Mistley  wishes  it." 


THE  REVOLVER  289 

Then  he  left  the  draughtsman  and  Geoffrey  proceeded 
with  his  work.  It  was  clear  that  William  had  made  as- 
surance doubly  sure  by  seeking  a  clergyman  and  adver- 
tising his  reformation.  Two  days  only  remained  before 
Parkyn's  visit  to  Brightlingsea,  and  during  that  time  one 
thing  called  to  be  done. 

That  day,  unknown  to  her  husband,  Helena  had  gone 
down  to  see  Aveline ;  but  Geoffrey  knew  this,  and  did  not 
desire  to  meet  Helena  again  or  have  any  more  to  do  with 
her  until  all  was  over.  He  intended  to  keep  every  shadow 
of  the  truth  from  Parkyn's  wife,  and  the  story  that  she 
would  presently  hear  was  the  same  that  the  world  would 
hear,  when  the  brothers  were  no  more.  That  he,  Geof- 
frey, had  taken  any  hand  in  the  death  of  her  husband  was, 
of  course,  a  fact  to  be  hidden  from  Helena  as  from  every- 
body else.  He  had  planned  all  details.  Inevitably  he 
must  suffer  from  inquiry  and  bear  the  blaze  of  investiga- 
tion upon  one  aspect  of  the  coming  deed ;  but  he  had 
thought  his  way  out  and  made  his  story  strong  at  every 
point.  Free  of  all  question  he  could  not  go,  but  the  re- 
sponsibility he  was  prepared  to  take  involved  him  in  no 
crime,  and  did  not  threaten  his  liberty.  Many  might 
even  applaud  him,  when  his  part  came  to  be  learned  ac- 
cording to  his  own  explanation  of  it. 

This  crucial  matter  formed  the  subject  of  speech  be- 
tween William  Ambrose  and  GeoffrcA^  on  the  evening  of 
the  same  day;  for  Seabrook  went  down  that  night  and 
with  him  took  a  vital  item  in  the  machine  of  Parkyn  Am- 
brose's destruction. 

William  was  now  grown  weak  and  his  interests  had  nar- 
rowed. His  mind  continued  clear,  however,  and  since  he 
knew  nearly  all  that  Seabrook  could  tell  him,  he  was  only 
concerned  with  what  the  other  had  brought.  When 
Emma  left  them  she  uttered  a  protest. 

"  It's  always  the  same  when  you  come,"  she  said  to 
Geoffrey.  "  I'm  fired  out ;  and  it's  a  shame,  because  I 
know   you've   got    secrets   with   William   away    from   me. 


290  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

And  he  never  had  a  secret  from  me  before  you  came  sneak- 
ing down  here." 

The  sick  man's  voice  was  sunk  to  a  whisper  now,  for  his 
disease  was  in  his  throat. 

"  Don't  you  worry,"  he  said.  "  There's  no  secrets  you 
won't  know  in  good  time.  What's  hid  is  only  for  your 
own  good,  and  two  days  from  now  you'll  understand." 

She  left  them;  and  when  she  had  gone,  Seabrook  shut 
the  door  and  sunk  his  own  voice,  so  that  what  followed 
was  spoken  almost  soundlessly, 

"  Have  you  got  it?  "  asked  Billy,  and  the  other  brought 
a  small  parcel  from  his  pocket. 

"  It's  light,"  he  said,  "  but  the  charge  is  heavy.  You'll 
only  need  to  fire  once,  but  all  the  barrels  can  be  loaded." 

He  produced  a  little  revolver  which  the  sick  man 
fingered,  and  found  he  had  strength  to  raise  easily. 

"  You  know  he's  coming  on  Thursday,  at  four  o'clock. 
Have  you  thought  where  you  are  going  to  hide  this  from 
Emma.?  " 

"  In  the  mattress.  I've  made  a  hole  under  me  that  she 
don't  know  about.  Did  it  last  night.  When  the  time 
comes,  I'll  have  it  hid  under  the  bedclothes.  Where's  the 
cartridges  ?  " 

"  In  my  pocket.  I'll  leave  them  with  you  —  five.  Can 
you  load  it,  or  shall  I.''  Let  me  explain.  At  half  cock 
it's  safe.     But  at  full  cock,  a  touch  does  it." 

Billy  learned  the  mechanism  without  speaking.  Then 
he  put  the  cartridges  into  their  chambers  and  hid  the 
weapon  in  the  mattress  beneath  him. 

"  If  I  can't  get  it  out  when  the  time  comes,  you  can," 
he  said. 

He  breathed  heavily  for  a  while  and  looked  at  Geoffrey. 

"  I  was  wondering  how  you  were  going  to  clear  your- 
self afterwards,"  he  whispered.  "  How  are  you  going  to 
explain  buying  the  revolver  and  bringing  it  to  me  and  all 
that.?" 

"  I've  thought  of  the  details." 


THE  REVOLVER  291 

"  Devil  doubt  you.     Where  did  you  get  the  thing?  " 

"  Don't  you  bother  about  it.     That'll  be  all  right." 

"  I  know.     But  where?  " 

"At  Colchester." 

"  Ah !     Then  you're  not  going  to  deny  you  bought  it  ?  " 

"What's  the  good?  Even  if  I'd  gone  to  London  for 
it,  it's  bound  to  be  traced  to  me." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  say  when  I've  pegged  ?  " 

"  Only  that  you  hoodwinked  me,  and  —  but  what  does 
it  matter  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  know  all  there  is  to  it.  The  thing  is  a  bit 
of  art,  and  though  I  shan't  be  here,  I'd  like  to  see  how  the 
story  will  look  when  it's  finished.  You've  got  your  yarn 
complete,  I'll  bet,  else  I  wouldn't  have  that  thing  hid  in 
the  mattress  now.  So  how  do  you  get  out  when  Parkyn's 
dead?" 

Seabrook  considered,  then  he  spoke. 

"  I'm  going  to  say  you  told  me  of  your  sufferings,  and 
that  each  hour  you  lived  was  pain.  And  I'm  going  to  say 
you  begged  me  to  help  you  to  end  it ;  and  that  I  put 
humanity  before  law  and  convention,  and  did  as  much  for 
you  as  I  would  be  done  by  —  to  shorten  your  trouble." 

William  grinned. 

"  You're  a  wonder,"  he  said.  "  You're  thrown  away 
here.  You  ought  to  be  helping  the  Kaiser.  That  lets 
you  out  all  right.  And  there's  your  blameless  record, 
too.  Couldn't  have  done  it  better  myself.  You  tell  them 
you  tried  to  get  poison  for  me  first,  but  I  refused  it  and 
wanted  this.  Then  you  stand  up  for  man's  duty  to  his 
fellow-man,  and  lecture  the  coroner  and  say  it's  a  shame 
that  doctors  only  think  of  keeping  the  sick  alive  and 
never  of  helping  'em  to  die,  and  all  that.  For  two  pins 
I  would  shoot  myself  —  now  you've  given  me  the  tip. 
But  don't  you  fear.  It  won't  be  till  after  I've  bowled 
him  over." 

Seabrook  confessed  to  some  of  his  illogical  confusion 
of  thought  already  mentioned. 


292  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  When  you  wanted  me  to  be  here,  I  decided  not  at 
first,  because  I  said  to  myself,  '  What  will  Parkyn  Am- 
brose think  if  he  finds  me  here  ?  '  " 

"  What  the  devil  does  it  matter  what  he  thinks,  seeing 
he  won't  go  out  of  the  room  alive?  " 

"  Exactly.     I  argued  without  that." 

"  They  can't  lock  me  up :  they  can't  even  try  me. 
They  can  only  stick  a  bobby  at  the  door  till  I  die.  And 
if  I  was  to  turn  round  and  tell  the  truth,  that  couldn't 
hurt  you,  for  who  would  believe  my  word  against  your 
denial.''  But  you've  earned  your  thirty  pieces  of  silver, 
and  you're  not  the  sort  to  fling  'em  away,  like  Judas. 
You  can  give  him  points." 

"  Be  careful  about  Emma." 

"  No  need  to  tell  me  that.  I  wouldn't  trust  your  prom- 
ises to  keep  her  out  of  the  gutter,  because  a  man  who  can 
do  what  you're  doing  don't  set  any  value  on  his  word  to 
friend  or  foe;  but  t'other  woman  will  look  after  Emma." 

"  You  can  feel  very  happy  about  her." 

"  Jezebel  was  here  to-day.  Brought  some  money,  and 
told  Emma  that  Parkyn  had  heard  from  the  parson. 
She  wouldn't  see  me  —  frightened  of  the  sight  of  death. 
But  she'll  have  to  look  death  in  the  face  before  long.  It'll 
be  a  shock  to  her.  She'll  want  a  lot  of  comforting  — 
eh.?" 

He  began  suddenly  to  suffer. 

"  Call  Emma,"  he  said,  and  Seabrook  obeyed.  She  ran 
up  at  once  and  gave  him  some  medicine. 

"  I'm  telling  '  Moustache '  I  shall  never  see  him  again," 
whispered  Billy. 

"  I  shall  remember  the  most  remarkable  and  original 
man  I  ever  met,"  said  Seabrook.  Then  he  turned  to 
Emma. 

"  Don't  you  worry,"  he  said.  "  And  don't  you  think 
I've  been  seeing  William  for  any  reason  to  hurt  him. 
We've  only  got  to  think  of  William  now  —  his  peace  and 


THE  REVOLVER  293 

comfort ;  and  we've  got  to  lessen  his  sufferings  all  we  can. 
And  now  his  mind's  at  rest,  because  Mr.  Ambrose  is  com- 
ing to  see  him ;  and  I  hope,  after  that,  his  body  will  be  at 
rest,  too.  And  that's  the  truest  kindness  we  can  do  him. 
Remember  what  I  say,  Emma." 

William  echoed  his  last  words. 

"  Remember  what  he  says,  Emma.  A  very  good  friend 
to  me,  he's  been." 

"  And  Mrs.  Ambrose,  too,"  said  Emma.  "  And  when 
you  make  it  up  with  your  brother,  then  you'll  go  without 
a  shadow  on  you,  Billy,  dear." 

"  Did  you  read  Helena  my  verses  ?  "  asked  William. 

"  No." 

"  You  let  '  Moustache '  see  'em  some  day.  They'll 
make  him  die  of  laughing." 

Then  Seabrook  left  them  and  undertook  his  nocturnal 
tramp  homeward.  Once  more,  and  once  only,  would  he  be 
called  to  visit  Brightlingsea ;  but  he  did  not  desire  to  go 
again,  and  already  began  to  consider  if  the  final  journey 
might  be  evaded.  Only  one  thing  caused  him  to  hesitate: 
the  fear  that  all  might  miscarry  and  William's  purpose 
fail,  if  he  were  not  there  to  aid  and  support  him  in  the 
supreme  moment.  William  was  now  exceedingly  weak, 
and  how  if  the  thing  he  designed  was  perceived  and  antici- 
pated by  his  brother.'* 

On  the  other  hand  William  was  cunning,  and  his  last 
energy  and  resolve  were  knit  into  this  purpose.  The  ac- 
tual deed  seemed  already  done  in  Geoffrey's  mind.  It 
was  his  quality  always  to  look  far  ahead,  and  already  he 
saw  the  next  problem  and  began  to  consider  it.  When 
Ambrose  was  gone,  Helena  must  make  the  necessary  ap- 
peal for  Seabrook  as  one  in  her  husband's  confidence  and 
essential  to  administration  of  "  Colnesidc."  No  such 
confidence  really  existed,  but  she  could  assert  it,  and  there 
was  none  to  deny  it.  Exemption  should  follow,  and,  if 
necessary,  be  extended. 


294)  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

Helena,  indeed,  knew  nothing  of  the  widowhood  that 
was  rushing  upon  her ;  but  her  lover  could  trust  the  lady 
to  be  clay  in  his  hands. 

A  whole  chain  of  incidents  awaited  his  control  and  de- 
velopment now,  and  he  longed  for  the  machine  to  move 
and  the  dirty  work  to  be  done,  that  he  might  find  himself 
free  to  proceed  with  a  manipulation  of  the  future  worthy 
of  his  genius. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

HELENA    VISITS    AVELIKE 

Helena  Ambrose  devoted  herself  heart  and  soul  to  the 
business  of  saving  Aveline.  She  enjoyed  the  task.  As 
soon  as  she  learned  that  her  friend  was  at  Brightlingsea, 
she  hastened  to  see  her  and  learn  what  might  best  be  done 
to  reconcile  her  with  Peter  Mistley. 

"  My  feeling  is,"  she  said,  "  that  whatever  you've  done, 
he'll  have  to  forgive  you,  or  he'll  be  cutting  off  his  nose 
to  spite  his  face.     It'll  pay  him  to  forgive  you." 

They  had  met  at  Mr.  Mushet's,  and  now  walked 
through  the  country  lanes  on  a  grey  afternoon  while  the 
wind  blew  and  the  leaves  fell. 

"  You're  looking  very  ill,"  said  Helena.  "  Of  course 
that's  natural.  I  want  to  know  what  I  can  do ;  you  owe 
it  to  me ;  I  can't  really  help  you  if  I  don't  understand. 
It  isn't  that  I'm  inquisitive;  I'm  only  dying  to  be  useful." 

"  Nobody  can.  It's  up  to  him  now.  I  wrote  all  I 
could  think  of  to  say.  He  was  everything  in  the  world 
to  me  after  I'd  known  him  six  months,  and  I  simply 
couldn't  lose  him,  just  for  the  accident  of  being  married. 
It  seemed  so  idiotic  to  let  a  piece  of  stupidity  wreck  our 
beautiful  love  for  each  other.  I  haven't  heard  from 
Peter  yet.     I  thought  he  might  have  come  down." 

"  What  did  you  say  to  him?  " 

"  I  realh'  forget.  I  wrote  pages.  But  I  told  him  ex- 
actly why  I'd  done  it  —  just  for  fear  of  losing  him  and 
no  other  reason.  You  see  it  was  a  hundred  to  one  against 
this  happening.  I  had  taken  every  possible  precaution 
and,  after  all,  the  very  thing  I  dreaded,  and  fought 
against,  and  was  made  to  do  gave  me  away.     Your  photo- 

295 


296  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

graph,  Helena.  My  instinct  screamed  out  against  it. 
The  same  with  the  picture  for  the  catalogue.  I  knew  my 
husband  would  see  that  and  recognise  my  painting,  if  I 
did  it  my  way." 

"  Has  Mr.  Mortimer  written?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  He's  going  to  divorce  you  at  once ;  that's  one  good 
thing." 

"  Billy  says  I'm  a  bigamist  and  ought  to  be  locked  up. 
How  absurd  the  truth  can  be." 

"  Shall  I  see  Peter  for  you?  " 

"  Not  for  the  world,  Helena.  If  he  doesn't  write,  or 
come,  then  I  shall  know  what  to  do." 

"What?" 

"  Why,  vanish  again.  But  I'm  not  afraid  he'll  be  un- 
sporting. I  expect  he'll  just  make  some  sort  of  arrange- 
ment, and  reckon  himself  well  out  of  it." 

"  If  he  really  loves  you,  he'll  marry  you  properly  the 
first  moment  that  he  can." 

"  It's  almost  too  good  to  be  true.  No,  I'm  very  much 
afraid  about  it.  For  the  moment  I  don't  see  how  I  could 
live  without  him." 

"Did  you  tell  him  that?" 

"  Rather  not.  I've  hurt  him  enough.  I  couldn't  com- 
plicate the  decision  for  him  with  silly  threats.  We  were 
gloriously  wedded,  marriage  or  no  marriage,  and  he 
knows  it.  And  I  always  told  him  I  hated  marriage  and 
attached  no  importance  whatever  to  it.  I  did  everything 
I  could  short  of  offering  to  be  his  mistress.  And  if  I'd 
suggested  that,  no  doubt  he'd  have  felt  I  was  on  a  lower 
plane  and  been  appalled,  and  barred  me  for  evermore. 
For  that  matter,  of  course,  I  am  on  a  lower  plane." 

"  Can  Geoffrey  do  anything?  " 

"  Good  gracious,  no." 

"  He  is  marvellously  clever,  and  a  great  diplomat.  He 
has  got  my  husband  to  see  poor  William  once  more  and 
forgive  him." 


HELENA  VISITS  AVELINE  297 

"  I'm  sure  that's  just  a  thing  Mr.  Ambrose  would  have 
done  in  any  case.  Would  he  ever  forgive  Peter  if  Peter 
forgave  me  ?  " 

"  He  doesn't  blame  Peter.  He  is  frightfully  sorry  for 
him." 

Aveline  speculated. 

"  I  wonder  what  on  earth  he'd  do  if  he  found  out  your 
romance,  Helena  ?  " 

"  You  need  never  wonder  what  Parkyn  would  do :  you 
always  know.  He  would  divorce  me.  I  dare  say  it  will 
come  to  that.  I  have  felt  fearfully  reckless  lately.  The 
war  corrects  perspective,  I  think.  You  can  only  live 
your  life  once,  and  what  on  earth  is  the  good  of  poisoning 
every  hour  of  it  with  the  need  for  pretence?  To  Geof- 
frey, who  is  so  subtle,  all  our  strategy  and  concealment 
and  shame  is  amusement.  Pie  delights  in  difficulties  and 
dangers,  and  makes  them  all  come  to  nothing  in  his  mag- 
ical way.  But  I  don't  —  not  now.  At  first  I  did ;  now, 
as  I  get  older,  I  hate  all  this  humbug  and  lying.  It  spoils 
life.     I  want  to  be  good,  Aveline." 

The  other  agreed. 

*'  I  expect  you're  wise,"  she  said.  "  It's  all  right  for 
you  to  feel  that,  because  you're  safe.  I  could  endure 
being  bad  all  right  till  I  was  bowled  over.  Being  bad 
never  bothered  me.  At  the  best  possible  Peter  won't  for- 
give me  —  not  right  awaj^,  not  f rankl}^  and  utterly.  He 
might  arrange  a  long-drawn  forgiveness,  in  instalments. 
And  the  last  would  never  be  reached.  I  know  how  he's 
built.  His  heart  will  fight  his  reason,  and  his  memory 
will  take  now  one  side,  now  the  other.  It's  just  a  ques- 
tion which  will  conquer,  and  I  believe  it  will  be  a  sort  of 
drawn  battle,  and  the  result  a  compromise  —  just  the  ar- 
rangement I  always  hate  most  in  everything." 

"What's  the  good  of  hating  it?  Life's  a  compromise. 
Everything  we  do  amounts  to  a  bargain,  cither  with  other 
people,  or  nature,  or  conscience." 

"  Life's  a  bargain,  certainlj',"  admitted  Aveline,  "  and 


298  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

few  get  the  best  of  it,  either.     I  thought  I  had,  though." 

"  Probably  you  can't  if  you're  made  of  fine  stuff.  The 
real  high-minded  people,  those  with  grand  ideals,  can't 
possibly  get  any  fun  out  of  a  world  like  this.  They've 
only  got  to  look  round  them  with  clear  eyes  to  feel  that  as 
things  are,  they've  no  right  to  any  comfort  even,  let  alone 
pleasure  and  happiness.  Why,  even  m}^  conscience  pricks 
me  sometimes  —  a  poor  little  conscience  like  mine ;  so  we 
may  well  understand  that  any  superior  creature,  with  a 
real  active  conscience,  can't  make  even  a  compromise  with 
life,  but  must  throw  over  all  selfish  thoughts  and  only  live 
to  plan  to  better  the  sorrowing  world." 

"  As  for  throwing  over  happiness,  it's  happiness  that 
throws  us  over.  Who  is  ever  happy  for  long,  whether 
they're  good  or  bad.''  " 

"  At  a  time  like  this,  with  all  Europe  in  tears,  nobody 
ought  to  be  happy,"  declared  Helena. 

"  I  hate  being  unhappy.  It  makes  me  ill,"  answered 
the  other. 

Helena  went  back  to  tea  with  Aveline,  and  upon  the 
way  they  called  to  learn  how  William  fared.  Emma 
would  only  leave  him  for  a  moment,  and  told  them  that  he 
was  worse  and  weaker. 

"  Always  making  up  rhymes  he  is  now,"  said  Emma. 
"  And  they're  mostly  wicked." 

"  What'll  she  do,  I  wonder.''  "  asked  Mrs.  Ambrose  when 
they  had  left  her. 

*'  She  won't  want  to  go  on  living,"  declared  Aveline. 
*'  Billy's  everything  that  matters  to  her." 

"  I'm  hoping  my  husband  will  do  something  for  her  — 
enough  to  keep  her  in  comfort  and  decency.  Emma  has 
been  a  good  friend  to  William,  and  done  all  she  could  for 
him  in  the  fearful  life  he  chose." 

"  I  dare  say  Billy  will  ask  him  to  remember  her.  He 
does  care  a  great  deal  for  Emma." 

"  Unhappiness  everywhere,"  sighed  Mrs.  Ambrose. 
"  Poor  little  Mrs.  Mushet  robbed  of  her  boy.     I  never 


HELENA  VISITS  AVELINE  299 

thought  I  should  live  to  be  thankful  I'm  not  a  mother; 
but  I  have." 

With  her  last  words  the  elder  prophesied  a  happy  issue 
to  Aveline's  troubles. 

"  I  believe  the  very  worst  is  over  and  that  you'll  hear 
to-morrow  from  Peter  Mistley  —  something  more  or  less 
comforting.  After  all,  he's  only  human,  and  it  takes  a 
great  deal  to  make  a  solid  man  like  that  stop  loving  one." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

MADGE    AT    BRIGHTLINGSEA 

Fires  ascended  in  the  gardens  of  "  Colneside "  and 
mounds  of  rubbish  were  converted  to  char  and  ash,  while 
the  smoke  clouds  lazily  rolled  away  on  the  western  wind. 
The  pageant  of  the  year  sank  back  to  its  dust  again  and 
returned  to  the  earth  that  had  created  it.  The  day  was 
one  of  dim  light  —  sluggish,  depressing.  The  gardens 
were  sere,  and  their  splendours  had  vanished. 

Gregory  Mushet,  with  Richard  Bare,  stood  beside  a 
bonfire  and  uneasily  regarded  half-a-dozen  women,  who 
worked  in  a  row  two  hundred  yards  distant.  Mr.  Bare's 
cricket  cap  was  the  only  bright  spot  upon  that  sad-col- 
oured scene,  for  the  flame  of  the  fire  hid  under  a  mass  of 
dead  stuff  and  the  girls  were  clad  in  black  or  drab. 

"  It  brings  home  the  war,  don't  it,  to  see  females  on  the 
land.''  "  asked  Richard  Bare. 

"  A  very  sad  and  crushing  sight,"  murmured  Gregory. 
"  I've  often  asked  myself  of  late  how  I'd  feel  if  I  found 
the  women  here;  and  now  they  are  here.  It  makes  you 
despair  of  Christ's  Word  and  Teaching,  to  see  women 
messing  up  the  earth.  No  woman  ever  did  any  good  in  a 
garden  —  from  Eve  down." 

"  And  worse  even  than  that,"  declared  Mr.  Bare ; 
"  from  all  I  hear  the  women  are  doing  man's  work  some- 
thing shameful  throughout  the  whole  country,  and  I  read 
the  Essex  women  were  a  lesson  to  the  rest  of  the  kingdom ; 
for  they'd  come  forth  in  their  legions,  and  there's  nothing 
they  won't  do  ;  and  seemingly  very  little  they  can't  do  ;  and 
if  the  Government  was  to  order  'em  into  khaki,  'tis  doubt- 
ful if  there'd  be  a  conscientious  objector  among  'em." 

300 


MADGE  AT  BRIGHTLINGSEA  301 

Gregory  Mushet  shook  his  head. 

"  They'll  want  half  the  glory  of  the  war.  They're  al- 
ways bitter  quick  to  claim  credit  and  bitter  feared  we 
men  will  forget  their  good  deeds  if  they  don't  din  'em  in 
our  ears.  And  after  all's  done  and  the  Germans  are 
whipped  back  into  their  kennels  and  muzzled  for  a  century 
of  Sunday's,  please  God,  then  the  women  will  make  out 
such  a  case  for  themselves  that  'twill  take  all  the  wit  of 
man  to  resist  'em." 

"  I've  been  watching  'em  work,"  said  Richard.  "  'Tis 
like  a  row  of  starlings  for  talk.  If  you  want  to  get  all 
they  can  do  out  of  'em,  you'll  have  to  spread  'em  beyond 
mouthshot  of  each  other  in  my  opinion.  They  must  be 
clacking." 

They  continued  to  do  nothing  themselves. 

"  You  can  see,  from  this  distance,  they  don't  take  it  in 
the  right  spirit,"  said  Gregory.  "  Not  one  knows  the 
hidden  meaning  of  what  she's  doing,  or  why  she's  doing  it ; 
and  you  can  bet  your  life  they'll  all  be  ill  the  minute  the 
weather  turns  harsh." 

"How's  Lieutenant  Hempson  going  on?"  asked  Bare. 

"  He's  been  mentioned  in  despatches,"  answered 
Mushet.  "  That's  the  first  step  forward,  and  if  he's 
spared,  he'll  soon  make  his  mark  on  the  war.  He's  got 
the  gifts  and  fears  nothing." 

"  Your  niece  is  uplifted,  without  a  doubt." 

"  Yes ;  she's  very  pleased  about  it.  She's  heard  from 
him  and  read  me  bits.  It's  a  racking  life;  but  in  my 
experience  only  a  certain  amount  of  bad  luck  is  measured 
out  to  every  man.  Hempson  had  his  bad  luck  and  I  be- 
lieve it's  run  out.  In  my  poor  nephew's  case,  the  bud 
luck  was  a  bullet  in  his  young  heart,  and  so  his  good  luck 
is  left  for  the  next  world.  And  a  tiling  that  often  puz/.les 
me,  Richard,  is  exactly  how  it  will  be  with  them  that  have 
had  all  the  plums  in  this  life  when  it  comes  to  hereafter. 
In  justice,  them  as  draw  a  blank  here  win  a  prize  there; 
but  how  are  you  going  to  do  with  him  that  has  good  luck 


e^vv  -2  COLLEGE  L 


302  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

with  his  health  and  his  wife  and  his  children  and  his 
money  in  this  world,  and  dies  full  of  honour  at  eighty-five 
or  over,  to  leave  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  in  the  bank 
and  a  marble  statue  to  keep  his  memory  green?  Then,  on 
the  other  side,  there's  such  as  my  brother's  boy,  Teddy. 
All  he  had  was  hard  work  and  to  be  crossed  in  love,  for 
Margery  was  his  dream ;  and  then  a  fortnight  of  that  hell 
yonder,  and  then  death.  And  what  does  he  go  to? 
Mind,  I'm  not  saying  their  lots  won't  be  made  equal;  but 
I  don't  see  how." 

"  More  don't  I,"  answered  Richard  Bare. 

"  Take  our  draughtsman,  Peter  Mistley.  Bad  luck 
has  broke  into  his  house  like  an  armed  man.  These 
things  can't  be  hid.  He  thought  he'd  married  a  widow, 
poor  chap,  and  finds  he  ain't  married  at  all,  but  have  been 
living  in  fancied  security  all  these  months  with  a  scarlet 
woman.  She  fled  from  him  when  the  secret  came  out,  and 
she's  hiding  for  the  moment  with  my  people  at  Brittlesea. 
They  don't  know  the  awful  truth,  of  course,  else  they 
wouldn't  let  their  roof  shelter  her.  But  Mistley. 
There's  his  bad  luck." 

"  Who  knows?  "  asked  Mr.  Bare.  "  In  fact,  since  he's 
found  out,  his  luck  mendeth,  because  to  escape  from  the 
clutch  of  a  bad  woman  is  good  luck." 

"  To  escape  from  the  clutch  of  any  woman  is  good  luck, 
for  that  matter,"  admitted  Gregory.  "  You  argue  very 
well,  Richard,  and  now  you'd  better  mend  your  fires. 
Rain's  coming.  I  must  go  and  talk  to  they  parlous 
women  now.  So  sure  as  ever  they  reach  to  the  end  of  a 
row,  they  waste  five  minutes  straightening  their  backs  be- 
fore they  bend  to  the  next  one." 

Margery  Mayhew  came  down  the  grey  garden  at  this 
moment.  She  sought  her  uncle  before  going  to  the  sta- 
tion. 

"  I'm  just  off  to  Brightlingsea,"  she  said. 

"  And  a  word  in  your  ear  before  you  go,  Madge. 
Don't  you  let  on  to  Aunt  Nancy  about  Andrew  being  men- 


MADGE  AT  BRIGHTLINGSEA  303 

tioned  in  despatches.  Good  news  like  that  would  onl}'  fall 
cruel  hard  on  your  poor  aunt's  ear  for  the  moment,  with 
Teddy  in  his  unknown  grave.  Comfort  her  so  well  as  you 
can ;  and  tell  her  the  truth  about  that  fallen  woman.  And 
don't  you  listen  to  no  cunning  excuses,  or  anything  of 
that.  She's  a  very  bad  lot,  and  the  less  you  have  to  do 
with  her  the  better  pleased  Andrew  would  be." 

"  He  liked  her.  Uncle  Greg." 

"  He  was  deceived.  I  never  trusted  her  —  too  pleas- 
ant. They  clever  people,  who  alwa3's  know  how  to  get  on 
your  blind  side  and  tickle  your  vanity  or  other  weakness, 
are  never  to  be  trusted.  They  use  their  gifts  treacher- 
ously. In  fact,  you  can't  be  so  charming  as  her,  if  3'ou 
ain't  a  bit  crooked,  too.  Straight  people  are  never 
charming." 

"  She  was  a  good  friend  to  me  —  better  than  an3'body 
knows  but  myself,"  answered  Margery.  "  Anyway,  I'm 
not  going  to  cold-shoulder  Aveline  for  anybody.  Slie's 
worth  a  thousand  of  the  ever\'day  sort,  and  I  shouldn't  be 
here  now  and  happy  but  for  her." 

"  Well,  don't  you  say  I'm  3'our  side,  because  I'm  not," 
warned  Mr.  Mushet.  Then  his  niece  left  him  and  went  on 
her  way. 

Aveline  met  her  at  the  station,  and  though  Marger3' 
stoutly  vowed  to  herself  that  her  friend  could  do  no 
wrong,  what  she  had  done  rather  alarmed  the  3'oungcr 
woman  and  she  felt  in  awe.  That  such  things  could  hap- 
pen at  all  astounded  her.  Her  friend  was  changed,  and 
to  Margery's  eyes  had  expanded  and  grown  somewhat 
transfigured  since  the  truth  was  out.  She  felt  shy  at 
first,  and  the  diffidence  which  might  have  been  expected  in 
Aveline  was  manifested  entirel3'  b3'  ^ladge.  Tlic  latter 
assumed  almost  an  apologetic  mien,  while  her  friend  re- 
mained imperturbed. 

But  she  acknowledged  ^largery's  steadfast  attitude. 

"  I  knew  you  wouldn't  give  me  up,"  she  said.  "  I've 
done  a  very  unusual   sort   of  thing  and  it  hasn't  been 


304  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

crowned  with  success,  Madge;  but  I've  thought  it  all  out 
and  threshed  it  all  out  to  the  last  straw,  and  I'm  quite 
convinced  that  if  the  time  came  again,  I  should  do  exactly 
the  same.  And  now  I'm  bitterly  sorry  and  very  much 
crushed;  but  only  for  one  thing,  and  that  is  because  I 
didn't  tell  my  Peter  the  truth.  And  now  I've  gone  and 
made  an  earthquake  of  his  life  —  and  of  my  own." 

"  Don't  talk  about  it  if  you'd  rather  not,"  said  Mar- 
gery. 

"  I  must.  You  mustn't  mind.  I've  got  nothing  else 
to  talk  about." 

"  Then  talk  about  it.  When  I  hadn't  anything  else  to 
talk  about  but  Andrew,  you  heard  me  patiently  enough. 
If  I  could  only  be  to  you  what  you  were  to  me." 

"  You  would  if  you  could." 

"  And  Andrew's  been  mentioned  in  despatches.  Don't 
tell  my  aunt.     But  I  know  you're  glad." 

"  Yes,  I  am  —  very  glad  indeed,  Madge." 

"  I  had  to  tell  you.  Are  you  comfortable  with  Aunt 
Nancy  ?  " 

"  Very.  She's  more  than  kind.  I  believe  it  is  good  for 
her  to  have  me  here  for  the  minute." 

"  Does  she  know  about  it.^*  " 

"  Yes,  she  does.  I  told  her  last  night.  I  felt  I  must. 
Perhaps  I  wouldn't  have  told  her  if  I  had  thought  she 
would  turn  me  out.  But  I  knew  her  well  enough  by  yes- 
terday to  feel  she  wouldn't  do  that.  She  took  it  like  an 
angel,  but  doesn't  hide  the  fact  that  I've  got  no  more 
than  I  deserved.  She  hopes  it  will  come  right.  But  the 
question  now  is,  what  would  '  coming  right '  amount  to  ? 
He's  coming  to  see  me  to-morrow." 

"  That's  good  news.  If  he's  coming,  then  it's  all  right. 
If  he  had  anything  very  terrible  to  say,  he'd  have  written 
it." 

"  Just  what  he  wouldn't.  On  the  whole  it's  a  bad  sign 
that  he's  coming." 

"  Never !  "  declared  Madge.     "  Do  you  think  he'd  trust 


MADGE  AT  BRIGHTLINGSEA  305 

himself  with  you  if  he'd  decided  to  —  to  go?  He  might 
make  it  easier  for  you  by  coming  to  speak,  but  what  about 
him?     If  he's  coming  to  see  you,  then  you're  safe." 

"  You're  a  darling  to  say  so,  Margerj' ;  but  you  don't 
know  Peter.  He's  much  greater  than  that.  If  he'd 
cared  for  the  outside  of  me  more  than  the  inside,  then 
there'd  be  hope;  but  he  didn't.  He  always  trusted  in 
reason." 

"  Then  he  won't  do  anything  unreasonable  now,"  prom- 
ised Madge. 

"  He  won't ;  but  man's  reason  isn't  woman's.  I'm 
groping  in  the  dark.  There's  so  much  I  don't  know  that 
may  be  influencing  him.  If  I  thought  he  was  coming  to 
me  to  decide  about  it,  then  I'd  feel  a  '  mite  of  hope,'  as 
Emma  says ;  but  he  has  decided.  He'd  feel  after  getting 
my  letter  that  I'd  nothing  more  to  say,  and  he'd  most 
likely  think  the  letter  was,  like  a  man's  letter,  all  carefully 
thought  out  before  I  sent  it.  He  can't  be  expected  to 
understand  that  a  woman's  letter  is  always  different  from 
a  man's  and  always  starts  from  a  different  place.  I 
don't  remember  a  word  I  wrote  him  now ;  and  if  I  had  to 
write  again,  no  doubt  it  would  be  all  different." 

"  His  mind  may  not  be  made  up.  He  may  have  sug- 
gestions to  make  and  want  to  hear  what  you  say  about 
them.  Don't  think  nothing  depends  on  you,  Aveline,  be- 
cause, if  you  think  that,  you  won't  fight.  You  must  fight 
for  yourself  as  never  you  did  before." 

"  Did  you  fight  when  you  wanted  Andrew  and  believed 
he'd  done  with  you  ?  " 

"  That  was  different,"  said  ISIargery.  "  I  was  a  little 
fool;  but  you're  clever  and  wonderful,  and  ^Ir.  Mistley 
knows  what  it  is  to  live  with  you.  I  believe  if  he  once 
clearly  understands  that  you  can't  live  without  him " 

"  You  want  to  save  me !  "  said  Aveline.  "  You  want  to 
cry  quits  and  find  me  sitting  on  the  banks  of  the  Colne 
waiting  to " 

"  How    can    you,    Aveline !     Good    heavens !     What    a 


306  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

thing  to  say.  I  didn't  mean  that  sort  of  not  being  able 
to  live  without  him.     You're  not  built  like  that." 

"  How  do  jou  know,  Madge.?  But  it's  true.  I 
couldn't  kill  myself  —  not  for  fear  of  death,  but  for  love 
of  life.  Life  is  so  worth  while  if  you're  not  twenty-five. 
But  there  are  other  deaths  than  death.  You  can  be  stone 
dead,  and  perfectly  alive  at  the  same  time." 

"  I  don't  believe  for  all  your  cleverness  you've  really 
grown  up  yet,"  answered  the  younger  doubtfully.  "  I 
was  grown  up  when  I  was  seventeen.  But  some  girls 
never  grow  up,  and  I  believe  you're  one  of  them." 

"  Perhaps  I  shall  kill  myself  all  the  same  —  if  he  won't 
forgive  me." 

"  He'll  forgive  you,  of  course.  What  on  earth's  the 
good  of  not  forgiving  people?  It  doesn't  hurt  them  and 
it  may  hurt  you.  He'll  forgive  you  and  take  you  back. 
I  believe  nine  men  out  of  ten  would." 

"  So  do  I,"  answered  Aveline ;  "  but  Peter's  not  nine 
men  out  of  ten:  he's  one  man  out  of  a  thousand." 

"  So  much  the  more  reason  he  should  know  what  you're 
worth  to  him." 

"  You're  a  clever,  comforting  little  dear.  But  it's  all 
waste  of  time  talking  about  it  till  I  see  him.  And  yet  I 
believe  I  know  perfectly  well  already  what's  going  to 
happen." 

"  I  implore  you  to  fight  for  yourself,  Aveline.  Don't 
feel  afterwards  that  you  didn't  do  your  best." 

"  I  know  his  heart,  but  I  don't  know  his  head.  Women 
are  generally  in  that  fix  with  men.  We  understand  their 
hearts  fairly  easily,  because  it's  our  business,  and  Na- 
ture's built  even  the  greatest  fool  of  a  woman  to  be  clever 
at  that ;  but  they  haven't  all  got  hearts,  and  their  heads 
are  always  beyond  us,  Madge.  The  best  men  rule  them- 
selves from  there.  I've  seen  the  battle  actually  going  on. 
Hang  them  !  They  '  sleep  on  '  a  thing !  When  Peter  used 
to  say,  '  I'll  sleep  on  it,'  I  knew  it  was  all  up.  When  a 
man  sleeps  on  a  thing,  he  generally  smothers  it  in  his 


MADGE  AT  BRIGHTLINGSEA  307 

sleep.  Their  hearts  are  strongest  at  night  —  after  din- 
ner; but  the  wretches  know  their  weak  hours,  and  it  isn't 
at  night  the}'  decide  anything  that  matters:  the}'  wait  till 
the  grey  morning,  when  their  hearts  are  locked  up  for  the 
day." 

Margery  was  secretly  astonished  that  Aveline  could  be 
flippant  at  such  a  time. 

"  You're  magnificently  brave  about  it,  anyway,"  she 
said ;  "  and  you  couldn't  be  so  brave,  whatever  you  say,  if 
you  weren't  fairly  hopeful.  And  it's  no  good  telling  me 
that  Mr.  Mistley's  heart  won't  come  into  this.  If  a  man 
has  got  a  heart  at  all,  he'd  use  it  over  such  a  fearful  thing. 
Can  he  forget  all  you've  been  to  him  ?  " 

"  No ;  and  that  may  make  it  so  much  the  harder  to  give 
me  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  But  j^ou're  right :  love's 
quickened  your  wits,  my  dear,  honest  Margery.  I  am 
hopeful  —  Avith  a  dreary  sort  of  hope.  Hope  with  the 
salt  left  out.  He's  had  a  battle  royal  about  it.  I 
wanted  to  write  again  —  miles  more;  but  I  didn't,  because 
I  thought  very  likely  I'd  contradict  myself  and  give  my- 
self away.  I've  got  a  vague  mind,  IMargory  —  like  my 
father.  He  meant  things  when  he  wrote  them :  but  life 
buffeted  him  —  he  was  a  feather  in  the  wind  of  it.  And 
there  were  always  base  outsiders  ready  to  take  advantage 
and  score  off  him  afterwards.  Peter  knows  me  well 
enough;  but  the  fact  that  I'm  Aveline  can't  alter  the  fact 
that  he's  Peter.  He'll  grant  that  I've  got  to  be  myself, 
but  he  can't  escape  from  the  need  to  be  himself ;  and  I  know 
what  he'll  do,  though  he  may  not  know  himself  yet." 

"  What'll  he  do,  then?  But  don't  sav  if  you'd  rather 
not." 

"  I'd  rather  not,  because  I  might  be  wrong." 

They  came  to  the  home  of  the  ]\Iushets  and  discussed 
Aveline  no  more.  IMargery  had  not  seen  her  aunt  since 
Teddy's  death,  and  waited  for  Nancy  to  mention  it.  Then 
they  talked  of  Teddy  and  a  little  cenotaph  that  was  to  be 
hung  on  the  wall  of  Brightlingsca  church  to  his  memory. 


3Q8  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  His  father's  wishful  so  to  do,"  said  Mrs.  Mushet,  "  and 
there's  comfort  in  it  for  Samuel  seemingly,  but  none  for 
me.  He's  buried  in  my  heart,  not  in  the  trenches  —  that's 
my  comfort.  He  came  from  me  and  he's  come  back  to  me. 
Mothers  understand  that ;  you  girls  that  are  not  mothers 
wouldn't  understand  it." 

"  I  do,"  said  Aveline.  "  A  child  feels  it  as  well  as  the 
mother  of  the  child." 

"  A  mother  and  her  boy  are  one  through  time  and 
eternity.  One  in  two  and  two  in  one  they  are,  and  not  life 
or  death  can  change  it.  And  he  knows  it.  I'm  an  angel's 
mother  now,  and  that's  saving  me." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

THE    PARTING 

Peter  Mistley  and  Purkyn  Ambrose  met  by  chance  at 
Colchester  railway  station.  They  shook  hands  and  spoke 
together,  then  found  that  they  were  travelling  to  the  same 
place. 

"  I  am  going  to  see  my  brother,  William  Ambrose.  He 
is  now  in  extremis,'^  said  Parkyn. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it." 

"  You  are  going  to  Brightlingsea,  too?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  a  painful  interview  lies  before  us  both,"  said  the 
other.  "  Life  brings  these  tragedies  in  its  train.  You 
said  that  you  were  sorry  to  know  my  brother,  William,  was 
in  extremis.  And  yet  j'ou  are  mistaken  to  regret  it,  for 
the  sooner  he  passes  from  these  initial  failures  to  another 
world,  where  he  will  begin  again  to  learn  his  lesson  and 
atone  for  years  of  uselessness,  the  better.  For  a  life 
spoiled  is  merely  so  much  time  lost.  William  will  be  called 
to  endure  discipline  —  it  may  be  terribly  severe  disci- 
pline —  discipline  that  may  occasion  pain  and  grief  to 
the  undisciplined  spirit.  But  the  idea  of  eternal  torment 
I  have  long  since  ceased  to  regard  as  reasonable.  '  It  is 
He  that  hath  made  us,  and  not  we  ourselves.'  It  follows, 
therefore,  that  eternal  condemnation  could  only  overtake 
a  faulty  soul  with  the  sanction  of  the  God  of  Mercy.  I 
am  bound  to  say  this  will  not  do." 

Mistley,  surprised  at  such  breadth  of  vision,  agreed 
with  him,  and  they  talked  fitfully  of  the  war. 

Both  relapsed  into  silence  ])efore  they  reached  Bright- 
lingsea, and  while  the  younger  looked  out  over  the  salt- 

309 


310  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

ings  and  marked  the  packing  shed  on  Peewit  Island,  Mr. 
Ambrose  sat  with  his  hands  on  his  knees  and  looked 
straight  in  front  of  him.  From  time  to  time  he  sighed  and 
brushed  the  front  of  his  waistcoat.  There  was  nothing  to 
brush,  but  he  had  a  habit  of  doing  so. 

Aveline  stood  on  the  platform  and  both  men  saw  her, 
while  the  train  ran  past  her  into  the  terminus. 

She  had  not  seen  Peter  and  now,  looking  at  the  few 
who  alighted  from  the  train,  still  failed  to  mark  him  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  came  and  held  out  his  hand  to  her  and 
she  saw  that  he  was  in  khaki. 

That  event  she  had  not  anticipated,  or  thought  upon. 
It  staggered  her.  She  started  and  gave  him  an  oppor- 
tunity to  speak. 

"  You  didn't  expect  me  to  be  a  soldier  yet?  " 

"  I  might  have ;  but  I  didn't." 

"  I'm  in  the  Fourth  Essex,  stationed  at  Colchester  for 
the  moment." 

He  was  quite  serious,  and  had  not  smiled  when  he  met 
her.  He  had  taken  the  hand  she  had  extended  to  his,  but 
had  shaken  it  as  a  stranger  would.  He  looked  thin  and 
drawn  to  Aveline.  Khaki  made  him  seem  smaller,  and  his 
moustache  was  not  a  military  moustache.  She  felt  he 
must  do  something  to  it.  Such  was  her  interest  in  his 
clothes  and  appearance  that,  for  a  moment,  she  almost  for- 
got these  things  were  outside  her  life. 

"  I  think  you  ought "  she  began,  in  the  old  im- 
petuous voice,  then  stopped  and  lowered  her  tone.  "  I 
forgot,"  she  said.  "  Will  you  come  to  my  rooms,  Peter, 
or  would  you  like  to  walk?  " 

"  We'd  better  go  to  your  rooms." 

"  I  saw  Mr.  Ambrose  leave  the  station  and  saw  you 
talking  to  him.  And  yet  —  so  extraordinary  —  I  didn't 
realise  it  was  you.  I  never  thought  you'd  be  in  khaki,  so 
of  course  a  soldier  didn't  challenge  my  eye." 

"  He's  come  to  see  his  brother." 

"  I  saw  him  yesterday.     The  poor  man  wants  to  be  for- 


THE  PARTING  311 

given.  It's  heart-rending  to  see  such  a  clever  creature 
all  crushed  and  ruined  and  going  out  of  the  world  without 
ever  having  done  any  good  in  it." 

"  You  always  said  he  was  clever." 

"  I  liked  him  somehow.  I  suppose  he  and  I  were  wicked 
in  rather  the  same  way.  Do  they  feed  3^ou  properly  at 
the  barracks  ?  " 

He  did  not  answer  this.  They  passed  a  middle-aged 
officer  and  Mistley  saluted  him.  He  acknowledged  the 
salute  with  his  e3^es  on  Aveline. 

"  A  Royal  Engineer,"  she  said.  "  He  lodges  near  the 
Mushets.  He  is  very  proud  of  his  corps,  and  was  telling 
Mr.  Mushet  about  it.  His  sappers  are  all  specially 
trained  men,  and  have  to  pass  a  trade  test  before  they  can 
be  sappers  at  all." 

"  In  my  line  regiment  we  are  clerks  or  ploughboys,  as  a 
rule." 

"  You're  infantry,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Yes,  we're  infantry." 

"  Surely  the  war  will  be  over  before  j^ou're  all  trained?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  all.  Some  learn  quicker  than 
others.  INIany  of  us  are  quite  intelligent  and  will  be  ready 
to  take  our  places  in  early  spring.  The  fit,  keen  men  who 
are  worth  sending,  go  out  in  drafts  —  fifty  to  a  hundred 
at  a  time.  So  there's  hope  for  us,  if  we  work  hard  enough 
and  learn  our  business." 

"  You  want  to  go,  then  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

They  came  to  Mrs.  Mushet's  and  soon  occupied  Ave- 
line's  little  parlour.  He  threw  off  his  overcoat.  Then  he 
sat  down  and  took  off  one  of  his  puttees. 

"  Haven't  quite  got  the  hang  of  it  yet,"  he  said,  start- 
ing to  bind  it  on  again. 

"Can  I  do  it?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  needn't  keep  you  long,  Aveline;  but  of  course  one 
had  to  see  you." 


312  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"May  I  speak  first?" 

"  Say  whatever  you  want  to  say.  But  really  there's 
not  much  you  can.  The  facts  aren't  in  dispute,  are  they  ? 
No  doubt  you've  realised  what  they  mean  by  this  time.''  " 

"  Well,  I  won't  speak ;  then  —  you  must  speak." 

"  As  far  as  I'm  concerned  it's  summed  up  in  one  ques- 
tion. Why  did  you  do  it  ?  " 

"  Because  I  loved  you,  and  I  knew  if  I  told  you  the 
truth,  you'd  stop  loving  me." 

"  How  could  you  possibly  know  any  such  thing?  " 

"  We  know  lots  of  things,  though  we  can't  explain  how 
we  learned  them.  For  instance,  I  know  all  you've  come  to 
say  now  before  you  say  it.  It's  in  your  face,  Peter. 
You  see,  I  was  bound  to  keep  my  secret  from  you,  until  I 
knew  you  quite  well,  just  as  I  was  bound  to  keep  it  from 
everybody  else.     And  when  we  got  beyond  that,  and  I 

knew  you  loved  me  and  you  knew  I  loved  you,  then 

Look  at  it  —  how  could  I  speak  then?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  it  would  have  been  the  end,  and  I  should 
have  lost  everything  in  the  world.  Deal  fairly  with  me, 
Peter.  Ask  yourself  what  you  would  have  done  on  the 
day  you  asked  me  to  marry  you  if  I  had  then  told  you  I 
was  a  runaway  wife.  Be  quite  honest :  what  would  you 
have  done?  " 

"  Blamed  you  for  hiding  it,  as  I  do  now,  bitterly." 

"  Yes,  of  course ;  but  what  would  you  have  done?  " 

"  I  couldn't  have  gone  through  the  farce  of  marrying 
you." 

"  But  what  would  you  have  gone  through?  Do,  before 
we  part,  think  that  out.  It  depends  on  what  you  would 
have  done  whether  I  was  justified,  or  not,  in  what  I  did. 
Your  judgment  and  sentence  ought  to  hang  on  that." 

"  Can  you  really  think  it's  possible  to  justify  what  you 
did?" 

"  In  my  own  eyes,  yes.  Anything  in  the  world  was  bet- 
ter than  losing  you  by  that  time.     Nothing  mattered  but 


THE  PARTING  313 

you,  and  I  believed  that  if  I'd  told  you  the  truth,  you'd 
have  banished  me  out  of  your  siglit  for  evermore.  That's 
all  I  ask  you  to  tell  me:  if  I  believed  right  or  not.  At 
least  you  know  what  you'd  have  done.  I'll  believe  what- 
ever you  answer,  Peter." 

"  There  is  no  need  to  talk  about  possibilities  that  didn't 
arise,"  he  said.  "  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea  what  I 
should  have  done.  I  should  have  felt  the  truth  about 
yourself  was  the  first  thing  you  ought  to  have  told  me 
instead  of  the  last.     But  spoken  then " 

"Yes?" 

"  Spoken  then  —  when  first  we  met,  I  mean  —  it 
wouldn't  have  made  any  difference  to  my  loving  you." 

"  But  why  should  I  be  expected  to  give  away  my  secret 
to  you,  before  I  knew  whether  I  could  trust  you?  Why 
should  a  woman  alwa3s  be  supposed  to  tell  her  secrets  and 
a  m«n  never  be  expected  to  tell  any  of  his?  " 

"  Don't  muddle  the  issue,  Aveline.  I  don't  blame  you 
for  keeping  j'our  secret  until  the  time  I  offered  to  marr^^ 
you,  or  at  any  rate  until  the  time  we  loved  each  other. 
But,  after  that,  there  was  not  a  shadow  of  justification 
for  doing  so.  It  was  an  utter  outrage,  impossible  if  you 
had  reall}^  loved  me.  And  how  I  was  likely  to  take  it 
doesn't  make  any  difference." 

"Good  heavens!  Can't  you  see  it  made  just  all  tlie 
difference?  " 

"  You  knew  you  could  not  marry  me  when  I  asked 
you." 

"  I  never  wanted  to  marry ;  but  I  couldn't  say  so  then. 
It  didn't  seem  to  me  to  matter  a  button  that  the  mar- 
riage was  all  humbug,  because  I  knew  we  should  be  glori- 
ously one,  marriage  or  no  marriage.  I  felt  that  some 
day  I  would  tell  you.  It  was  acting  a  lie  or  losing  you, 
that's  how  it  seemed  to  me,  and  naturally  a  lie  weighed 
nothing  against  losing  you.  And  you've  got  to  come  back 
to  the  point,  and  tell  me  how  you  would  have  acted  if  you'd 
heard  the  truth,  Peter.     I  have  no  case  till  I  know  that. 


314.  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

If  you  saj  it  would  have  made  no  difference  and  jou  would 
have  married  me  as  soon  as  my  husband  heard  that  he 
could  divorce  me,  then  I'm  done.  For  then  I  mistook  you 
and  was  utterly  wrong  in  every  way.  But  if  you  say  you 
would  have  dropped  me  on  it,  then  I  shall  always  think  I 
was  right  to  play  for  my  own  hand  as  I  did ;  and  the  fact 
that  I  have  lost  won't  ever  make  me  believe  I've  played 
wrong.  Do  tackle  that  and  try  to  think  what  you  would 
have  done,  dear  Peter.  I  know  it's  difficult  after  all  the 
gorgeous  times  we've  had  together;  but  it's  only  fair  to 
me.  You  see  my  future  depends  upon  it.  Of  course 
you've  done  with  me  now,  I  expect  that,  but  the  vital  thing 
to  me  —  the  thing  that  will  decide  if  I  can  live  and  breathe 
naturally  and  respect  myself  again  —  is  what  you  would 
have  done  if  I'd  told  you  the  truth  when  you  asked  me 
to  marry  you." 

"  I  see.  And  you,  thinking  3^ou  knew  me  perfectly,  de- 
cided that  if  I  heard  the  truth,  I  should  turn  my  back  on 
you,  Aveline?  " 

She  felt  this  unexpected  retort,  but  parried  it. 

"  You  must  answer  me  first  —  honestly,  ever  so  honestly. 
You  must  answer  me,  Peter,  and  if  I  was  wrong,  then  I 
can  only  call  on  the  hills  to  cover  me.  No  indictment  you 
could  bring  would  be  half  so  terrible  as  my  own." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  you,  then,"  he  said  after  a  pause. 
"  Because  I'll  swear  by  any  God  you  like  to  name,  that  if 
you  had  told  me  the  truth  about  yourself  —  even  so  late 
as  when  I  asked  you  to  marry  me  —  I  should  have  taken 
the  needful  steps  to  make  our  marriage  possible.  You 
had  only  to  say  you  loved  me  as  dearly  as  I  loved  you,  and 
I  should  have  left  no  stone  unturned  until  you  were  free. 
And  as  the  law  demands  degradation  before  it  grants 
freedom,  I  would  have  fallen  in  with  its  barbarisms  and 
done  all  in  my  power  to  protect  you  against  its  insults. 
I'll  go  further  than  that,  and  say  that  if  your  husband 
had  been  one  of  the  pious  or  malignant  sort  that  wouldn't 
divorce   you,    that    would    have   made    no   difference.     I 


THE  PARTING  315 

should  have  asked  you  to  come  to  me  just  the  same,  and 
reverenced  you  the  more,  and  been  the  more  punctilious 
and  jealous  for  you  and  the  readier  to  fight  the  whole 
world  for  you.  That  is  how  I  should  have  felt  and  what 
I  should  have  done,  Aveline." 

"  Then  no  woman  ever  made  a  more  hopeless  mistake. 
I  believe  you,  I  believe  every  word  you  sa}',  though  every 
word's  a  nail  in  my  coffin,  Peter.  I  deserve  to  lose  you  — 
I  can't  say  more  than  that.  I  never  knew,  or  guessed, 
your  love  was  so  great,  and  I'm  punished,  Peter,  with  the 
usual  punishment  of  ignorance.  Nothing's  ever  punished 
like  ignorance.  Wickedness  often  escapes,  but  ignorance 
never  does.  And  I  was  so  ignorant  that  I  couldn't  see 
how  big  you  were  and  never  felt  in  my  bones  how  much  you 
loved  me.  I  wasn't  great  enough  for  you  to  love  me;  I 
wasn't  deep  enough  to  hold  all  the  love  you  poured  out  on 
me  and  wasted  on  me.  There's  only  one  thing  I  can  ask 
you  to  do  now,  and  tliat  you'll  easily  do,  because  it's  one  of 
the  qualities  of  greatness  to  do  it  always,  and  again  and 
again  if  need  be.  Forgive  me,  Peter.  Saj^  you  forgive  me 
before  you  go.  I  can't  live  if  you  don't  do  that,  and  I 
w^on't.  You're  free  again,  and  I  haven't  come  between 
you  and  the  things  that  mattered  —  I  never  did  that,  did 
I?  I  haven't  poisoned  your  life,  or  anything  like  that; 
because  you're  too  strong  to  be  poisoned  by  me.  So 
what  I've  done  isn't  beyond  forgiveness.  Love  makes  a 
woman  distrust  herself  and  shakes  her  judgment.  My 
folly  made  me  choose  wrong  before  a  fearfully  difficult 
choice  —  difficult  to  a  poor  thing  like  me.  But  it  was 
folly,  Peter,  not  wickedness.  I  went  wrong  simply  because 
I  was  blinded  by  the  awful  dread  of  losing  you.  But 
my  love  wasn't  worthy  of  you.  It  was  only  the  best  I  had 
to  offer.  I  know  now  that  I  and  my  love  were  in  a  lower 
world  altogether  than  you  and  your  love.  It's  shattering, 
after  our  wonderful  days  together,  so  equal  as  they  seemed 
and  so  beautifully  balanced,  to  find  what  a  gulf  there  was 
really.      I  suppose  3'ou  knew  it  and  felt  it  from  the  first, 


316  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

but  were  too  generous  to  let  me  have  an  inkling  of  it.  I 
expect  there  are  plenty  of  splendid,  disappointed  men 
throwing  dust  in  women's  eyes  like  that,  and  the  fools 
don't  know  it.  But  now  it's  got  to  be  known  and  felt, 
and  the  dust  has  to  be  washed  out  of  my  eyes  with  tears. 
And  I  ought  to  drown  myself  in  tears.  And  perhaps  when 
my  little  mind  realises  gradually  all  that  this  means,  I 
shall.  But  you  must  forgive  me  —  despite  everything  you 
must  do  that.     Please,  Peter." 

She  stopped  and  he  did  not  answer  immediately.  He 
looked  at  her  with  unutterable  sadness  in  his  face ;  yet 
under  it  was  something  almost  akin  to  a  smile.  He  had 
not  missed  the  little  ironies  of  her  speech,  but  knew  they  by 
no  means  altered  the  fact  that  she  was  in  terrible  earnest. 

"  How  could  you  do  it,  Aveline?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because  I'm  a  low-down  thing  and  was  never  properly 
lifted  above  myself  when  temptation  came.  And  that's 
not  my  fault  either,  for  who  can  be  lifted  above  themselves 
and  who  can  make  what's  shallow  deep  ?  But  you  took  me 
as  you  found  me,  and  you've  got  to  forgive  me  as  you  find 
me.  I  don't  know  how  I  could  do  it,  Peter ;  but  I  know 
why  I  did  it.  When  I  say  I'm  bitterly  sorry,  it  means  I'm 
bitterly  sorry  for  being  myself.  And  yet  —  and  yet  how 
can  I  be?     It  was  myself  you  loved." 

"  You   said   in   your  letter "  he  began ;   but   she 

stopped  him. 

"  Don't  waste  precious  time  on  that.  It  really  doesn't 
matter  what  I  said  in  my  letter,  does  it?  Not  now  that 
we're  here  together." 

"  You  said  in  that  letter  you  wouldn't  influence  me  even 
if  you  could.     Do  you  still  feel  that?  " 

She  was  impatient  with  the  triviality. 

"  Don't  waste  time  with  rubbish  that  makes  no  differ- 
ence. Of  course  I'd  influence  you  if  I  could.  I'd  do 
everything  but  die,  to  influence  you.  I  can't  go  on  my 
knees  to  you  to  take  me  back,  Peter ;  but  I  would  do  even 
that  if  I  thought  it  could  make  you.     No,  I  only  ask  you 


THE  PARTING  317 

to  see  how  it  looks  from  my  angle  of  sight.  Granted  my 
angle  of  sight  is  the  result  of  a  squint.  jNIost  people  do 
squint  a  little  when  they  look  at  life.  But  the  few  lucky 
ones  who  see  straight  must  be  merciful  to  those  who  do 
not.  And  now  I've  spoken  enough.  I'm  tired.  I've 
talked  myself  empty.  It's  up  to  you,  Peter.  Would  you 
like  to  smoke.''  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

He  sat  still,  bending  forward  with  his  hands  locked  be- 
tween his  open  knees  and  his  head  lowered.  He  did  not 
look  at  Aveline,  but  appeared  to  regard  notliing  but  his 
boots. 

She  saw  he  was  changed.  Physically  he  looked  thinner. 
His  voice  seemed  to  have  a  different  quality.  There  was 
less  light  and  shade  about  it,  less  care  for  inflection.  He 
seemed  dull  —  as  though  his  mind  were  growing  subdued  to 
the  colour  of  his  clothes.  But  she  knew  that  it  was  not 
soldiering  that  made  him  inert.  She  was  under  no  de- 
lusion as  to  what  he  had  felt  for  her,  or  how  his  life  had 
changed  at  her  touch.  She  began  to  be  very  sorry  for 
him  and  to  forget  herself. 

"  Well  may  you  ask  me  how  I  could  do  it,"  she  said 
presently,  finding  he  did  not  speak.  "  It  was  a  damnable 
thing.  I'm  not  going  to  try  and  excuse  it  any  more.  No 
man  ever  loved  a  woman  better,  or  half  as  beautifully  as 
you  loved  me.  You  trusted  so  finely;  you  believed  in  me 
so  purely  and  perfectly.  If  I  wasn't  made  of  stone  my 
heart  would  have  broken  —  for  your  sake,  not  my  sake. 
There's  nothing  too  bad  for  me,  or  half  bad  enough.  If  I 
could  atone  by  dying  for  you,  I  would ;  and  I  will  atone 
somehow,  somewhere.  I  was  hoping  you'd  give  me  some 
idea  of  what  to  do  —  after  you'd  forgiven  me.  Penance 
comes  after  absolution,  doesn't  it?  Or  does  it  come  first? 
I  don't  know." 

"You're  tiring  yourself.  You've  told  me  all  I  want  to 
know,  Aveline.  You've  made  a  good  enough  case.  When 
you  say  you  had  to  be  yourself,  you  say  everything." 


318  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  No  I  don't  —  don't  believe  it  —  don't  believe  a  word 
I  say.  I  beggar  the  question  when  I  say  that.  It's  non- 
sense. Nobody's  got  to  be  themselves  if  they  are  under 
the  guidance  of  a  stronger  nature  than  their  own,  and 
have  given  up  their  will  and  hope  and  everything  to  some- 
body else,  as  I  gave  up  everything  to  you.  I  can't  be  ex- 
cused. I  knew  how  you  loved  me,  and  I  ought  to  have 
known  your  love  was  big  enough  to  stand  the  truth.  No- 
body would  have  understood  the  truth  better  than  you." 

"  Yes,  I  should  have  understood  it  well  enough." 

"  Then  why  didn't  I  know  you  would?  I  did  know  it. 
There's  not  an  honest  word  to  be  said  for  me." 

"  It's  no  good  going  round  in  a  circle.  Have  you  got 
anything  you  want  to  say  that  you  haven't  said.^  If  not, 
then  I'll  speak." 

"  No,  there's  only  to  be  forgiven  before  you  go,  Peter. 
And  if  you  could  point  some  sort  of  a  road  for  me,  it 
would  be  something.  The  road  would  lead  away  from 
you,  I  know ;  still,  if  you'd  pointed  to  it,  I  could  travel  it 
easier." 

"  Why  should  you  saddle  me  with  the  need  to  choose  for 
you.''  "  he  said  moodily. 

"  No  shadow  of  reason.  Merely  an  impertinence. 
Still,  if  you  can  forgive  me " 

"  I  can't  forgive  you,"  he  said.  "  Honestly,  Aveline,  at 
this  moment  I'm  not  forgiving  you.  Can't  you  see  what 
an  utter  wreck  you've  made  of  our  lives?  A  thing  never 
to  be  built  up  again.  It's  no  more  possible  to  forgive  you 
than  it  would  be  to  forget  you.  And  I  don't  want  to  for- 
give you  either.  I'm  in  a  very  curious  state  of  mind,  and 
it's  still  more  curious  that  I  can  try  to  describe  it  to  you. 
But  I  feel  it's  a  jolly  sight  better  for  us  both  that  I  hate 
you  like  hell  for  doing  this  to  me,  than  that  I  should  for- 
give you  for  doing  it.     Does  that  sound  mad  to  you?  " 

"  No ;  I  understand.  Forgiveness  is  a  dead  thing  and 
hate  is  alive,"  she  answered,  her  mind  moving  like  a  flash. 
"  I  was  a  fool  to  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  because  forgive- 


THE  PARTING  319 

ness  is  so  often  just  a  door  slammed  and  locked  between 
people.  But  hate's  different.  It  may  end  in  death  or  in 
life;  but  it  can't  stop.  You  can  graft  on  it.  It's  not  a 
passionless,  frozen  thing  like  forgiveness.  It's  a  storm 
that  may  end  in  earthquake  or  turn  into  —  you  never 
know.  Yes,  I'd  rather  you  hated  me  than  forgave  me, 
Peter." 

"You  understand.  What  don't  you  understand?  I 
can't  explain,  but  I  suppose  your  explanation  is  right." 

He  got  up  abruptly. 

"  I'm  going  to  volunteer  with  the  first  draft  possible  for 
France.  I'm  thinking  of  nothing  but  soldiering  now.  I 
try  to  keep  everything  else  out  of  my  head.  Afterwards 
—  God  knows.  I  don't  well  see  how  we  can  keep  apart. 
We're  not  two  people  —  we're  one." 

"  Go  on  hating  me  and  I'll  go  on  loving  you,  and  see 
who  holds  out  longest." 

"  I  can't  be  clear,"  he  said,  weakening  a  little.  "  Don't 
use  that  word  for  it,  Aveline,  though  there's  no  other." 

"  I  know,  I  know.  It  isn't  hate,  it's  the  smart  of 
wounds  —  wicked  wounds,  given  you  by  your  own  second 
self.  Only  give  me  a  chance  some  day  to  heal  your 
wounds.  I  don't  ask  more  from  you  than  that.  I'm 
wicked,  but  I'm  strong.  I'll  turn  my  wickedness  into 
goodness.  I'll  work  —  not  at  art.  I'll  do  something  that 
counts." 

"  You'll  be  a  free  woman  when  I  come  back,"  said  Peter. 
"  He's  going  through  with  it  as  soon  as  possible.  There 
may  be  a  lot  of  wretched  little  details  —  legal,  I  mean. 
But  that  can't  be  helped." 

"  They  don't  matter." 

"  Well,  if  I  get  through  —  I  suppose  we And  in 

the  meantime  see  Dr.  Carboncll.  He's  going  to  look  after 
things.     You'll  be  all  right." 

"  You're  not  much  of  a  hater.  Wait  —  only  wait  till 
you  come  back.     There  are  some  things  I  can  do." 

"  Good-bye." 


320  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  May  I  write  to  you?  " 

"  Please." 

"  Will  you  write  to  me  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"Will  you  see  me  just  once  more  before  you  go  to 
France?  " 

"  What  do  you  think  about  it  ?  " 

"  All  right  —  then  we  won't,  Peter.  But  tell  me  before 
you  go.  And  read  my  letters.  I'll  soon  be  doing  some- 
thing useful." 

"  Work  —  work  your  fingers  to  the  bone.  Try  and  kill 
yourself  with  work." 

He  hardened  up  again  and  she  was  glad. 

"  Now  I'll  be  gone,  Aveline." 

"  Thank  you  for  coming.  It  was  like  you.  Very  few 
men  would  have  done  it.  If  I'd  worked  my  fingers  to  the 
bone  sooner " 

"  We've  neither  of  us  known  what  work  means  yet.  It's 
worth  while  learning." 

He  picked  up  his  cap  and  coat,  hesitated,  and  then  rose 
and  prepared  to  leave  her  quickly.  That,  too,  she  un- 
derstood, and  was  glad  he  did  not  touch  her  again. 

"  Good-bye.  You'll  come  back  to  something  better  than 
you're  leaving." 

He  turned  an  instant  at  the  door. 

*'  This  all  seems  so  damned  canting  and  superior  on  my 
side.  I  didn't  mean  to  be  like  this ;  but  you  understand. 
Let  me  go  and  fight  and  I  shall  be  clean  again." 

*'  And  I,  too,"  she  said. 

"  Take  —  take  care  of  yourself,  Aveline.  Don't  work 
too  hard,  of  course." 

Then  he  left  her,  and  she  restrained  the  longing  to  lift 
her  arms  to  him  and  kept  them  down. 

It  was  the  compromise  she  had  expected ;  yet  it  was 
better  than  she  expected.  He  had  forgiven  her,  but  did 
not  know  it. 

When  his  footsteps  sounded  no  more  a  vivid  emotion 


THE  PARTING  321 

swept  her  —  the  greatest  thing  she  had  felt  in  her  life.  A 
luxuriance  of  noble  resolutions  blossomed  in  her  heart. 
Her  imagination  was  equal  to  this. 

"  My  God,  I'll  do  something  big !  "  she  said,  while  the 
tears  ran. 

Then  she  shivered  and  sat  down  and  felt  her  body  grow 
small  and  her  soul  shrink  in  it. 

"  I  can't  do  anything  big,"  she  cried  to  herself ;  "  I  can 
only  hunger  to." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

MURDER 

Parkyn  Ambrose,  composing  his  mind  to  the  painful  scene 
that  awaited  him,  sought  the  home  of  Tom  Darcy  and 
prepared  to  take  leave  of  his  brother. 

A  recent  incident  troubled  him  slightly,  though  he 
doubted  not  there  existed  some  explanation.  Calling  to 
speak  with  Seabrook  that  morning  in  the  draughtsman's 
room  at  "  Colneside,"  he  learned  that  Geoffrey  was  not  at 
the  studio.  But  the  young  man  never  took  holiday  with- 
out asking  if  he  might  do  so.  Therefore  Parkyn  won- 
dered whither  Geoffrey  had  gone.  He  was  now  to  learn. 
From  the  upper  chamber  where  Billy  lay,  two  persons  saw 
his  brother  approach.  They  were  Emma  and  Seabrook, 
and  the  woman  announced  their  visitor. 

"  He's  coming !  "  she  said.  "  He's  looking  at  the  num- 
bers. He's  got  a  big  grey  coat  on,  and  a  stovepipe  hat 
and  his  umbrella." 

She  looked  at  Seabrook. 

"  He'll  want  to  see  Billy  alone,  for  certain,"  she  added. 

"  William  wishes  me  to  stop  for  a  few  minutes.  Then  I 
shall  come  down,"  explained  Geoffrey. 

"  Let  him  in  and  bring  him  up,"  he  added,  as  the  door- 
knocker fell.      He  had  taken  command. 

"  Shall  I  make  a  dish  of  tea  for  the  man,  while  he's  along 
with  Billy,  or  won't  he  drink  it.''  " 

"  By  all  means  make  it." 

Emma  went  downstairs  and  Seabrook  turned  to  Wil- 
liam. He  was  very  weak  and  could  only  speak  under  his 
breath.      But  he  had  conserved  his  senses  for  this  moment. 

"  Get  it  out,"  he  whispered,  "  and  pull  to  full  cock.     I'll 

322 


MURDER  323 

keep  it  under  the  bedclothes.  I  ain't  going  to  waste  time 
talking." 

Seabrook  brought  the  revolver  from  its  hiding-place, 
cocked  it  and  put  it  into  Billy's  hands. 

"  Don't  touch  the  trigger  till  you  fire,"  he  said.  "  I'll 
light  the  candles,  it's  getting  dusk." 

The  other  was  sitting  up  with  his  knees  lifted.  Under 
the  clothes  he  held  the  revolver.  The  footfall  of  Mr.  Am- 
brose sounded  upon  the  stairs,  and  his  big,  slow  voice  ad- 
dressed Emma. 

"  You  should  put  a  light  upon  the  landing.  It  would 
enable  you  to  go  up  and  down  more  safely." 

"  I  know  the  way  so  well  I  don't  need  no  candle,"  said 
Emma. 

She  threw  open  the  door. 

"  Here's  Mr.  Parkyn  Ambrose  come  to  see  you,  Billy, 
dear,"  she  said.  "  And  he'll  do  the  talking  —  don't  you 
try." 

Parkyn  came  forward  to  the  bedside  and  Seabrook  sig- 
nalled to  Emma  to  leave  them.  She  sank  away  and  shut 
the  door  behind  her. 

William  had  greatly  changed  since  last  his  brother  saw 
him.  He  was  now  grown  to  a  skeleton,  and  his  thin  beard 
failed  to  hide  the  staring  cheek  bones  or  3'ellow  cheeks. 
His  forehead  seemed  to  bulge  out  over  his  nose,  which  had 
lost  its  ruddiness  and  grown  pointed.  His  eyes  were  sunk, 
his  mouth  was  open  and  his  brcatliing  had  become  diffi- 
cult. He  continually  lifted  his  shoulders.  He  regarded 
Parkyn  without  emotion  and  made  no  effort  to  take  the 
hand  he  held  out. 

"  Too  weak,"  he  whispered.  "  I  can  only  listen.  I 
can't  speak." 

Then  the  candles  burned  up  and  showed  Geoffrey  Sea- 
brook. Until  now  Parkyn  had  been  merely  conscious  of 
another  man  in  the  room,  and  sup])osed  he  was  the  doctor. 
Only  when  Geoffrey  spoke  did  Mr.  Ambrose  realise  with 
astonishment  the  third  person  present. 


QM  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  Good  powers  !     You  here,  Seabrook?  "  he  asked. 

"  You'll  naturally  feel  astonishment,  sir.  I  had  not 
time  to  ask  leave,  for  the  urgent  message  came  from  Miss 
Darcy  while  I  was  having  breakfast.  But  I  knew  in  the 
circumstances  you'd  raise  no  difficulty.  Mr.  William  ur- 
gently wished  me  to  be  here." 

"  Why  does  he  want  you?  " 

"  Speak  to  him  and  he'll  tell  you." 

"  It  is  not  a  time,  nor  do  I  speak  for  any  other  ear 
than  his." 

"  Exactly  what  I  told  him."  He  turned  to  the  sick 
man.     "  You  see,  Mr.  William " 

Billy  was  not  listening,  but  intent  on  his  own  thoughts. 
His  hand  moved  under  the  bedclothes. 

Parkyn   spoke. 

"  There  can  be  no  reason  why  Mr.  Seabrook  should  stay 
with  us  at  present,  William.  Our  meeting  is  sacred.  By 
God's  mercy  you  have  been  won  to  make  your  peace  with 
Him,  and  I  have  come  to  say  that  you  have  made  your 
peace  with  me,  too.  We  are  all  learners  here,  and  few 
learn  the  best  way  to  face  this  difficult  life,  William ;  but  in 
the  world  to  come " 

He  broke  oif  suddenly.  He  was  conscious  that  Sea- 
brook had  not  departed  and  it  annoyed  him.  But  the  man 
stood  his  ground  obstinately. 

"  May  I  ask  you  to  go  ?  "  he  said,  and  Geoffrey,  who 
stood  on  the  right  of  William's  pillow,  while  his  master  sat 
on  a  chair  on  the  left  of  it,  did  not  answer,  but  looked  at 
William. 

It  seemed  as  though  this  challenge  was  the  signal. 

The  sufferer  knit  himself  together  and  concentrated 
every  energy.  In  a  moment  he  had  produced  the  re- 
volver and  without  delay  lifted  it,  pointed  it,  aimed  and 
fired.  His  actions  were  almost  simultaneous,  and  so  near 
was  the  muzzle  of  the  weapon  to  the  victim  that  the  man's 
coat  was  set  on  fire.  He  fell  in  a  heap,  writhing,  burning 
and  still  living.     The  explosion  shook  the  crockery,  and 


MURDER  325 

the  smoke  nearly  choked  William  Ambrose.  But  it  was 
not  his  brother  that  he  had  slain.  He  had  shot  Seabrook 
under  the  heart  and  now  looked  down  at  him  and  laughed. 

The  murdered  man  lived  long  enough  to  realise  the  situ- 
ation and  Billy  was  glad.  "  Think  of  it  —  think  of  it !  " 
he  whispered  as  loudly  as  he  could.  "  All  gone  —  all 
wasted.  Your  cleverness  and  your  plots  and  your  devil- 
ries. And  me,  your  tool,  turned  in  your  hand  and  cut  you 
to  the  bone !  Cleverer  than  you  —  deeper  than  you,  I 
was !  Wriggle  away ;  you  won't  wriggle  that  out  of  your 
heart." 

Until  this  moment  Parkyn  Ambrose  had  been  too  ap- 
palled to  speak,  or  move.  Now  he  leapt  to  Geoffrey's 
aid  as  Emma  rushed  in.  But  neither  could  save  him. 
Consciousness  was  out.  He  bled  from  the  mouth  and  died 
as  they  held  him. 

The  earthquake  —  the  only  thing  he  ever  feared  —  had 
happened  to  him. 

"  D'you  want  to  know  wh}'  I  did  it?  Because  I  didn't 
like  him.  Give  me  something  to  drink,  Emma.  Leave 
messing  about  with  him.  He's  dead.  He  wasn't  a  nice 
man.  Blood's  thicker  than  water,  that's  true  —  look  at 
it.  Mop  it  up,  Emma,  or  it'll  get  through  the  ceiling.  I 
forgive  you  all  you've  thought  against  me,  Parkyn.  1 
forgive  you  —  for  your  wife's  sake.  This  carrion  wasn't 
a  gentleman.  I  had  a  down  on  him,  because  he  thought  he 
was  cleverer  than  me.  Drink,  Emma  —  get  mo  drink. 
Take  it  away  —  I  don't  want  it  again." 

Parkyn  took  the  revolver  from  him  and  put  it  on  tlic 
mantelshelf.  He  was  shaking  and  trembling.  Emma 
suddenly  fell  into  violent  hysterics  and  began  screaming 
loudly.  William,  quite  indifferent,  stared  at  them  b^tji, 
and  at  the  dead  man  lying  face  upwards  on  the  floor. 

His  interest  was  there. 

"He  didn't  think  this  was  going  to  happen  to  him, 
you  know,  brother  Parkyn.  He  had  different  ideas  alto- 
gether.    Never  mind  what  they  were  now.     His  death  was 


326  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

the  surprise  of  his  life,  anyway.  A  clever  chap  ;  but  not  so 
clever  as  me  —  clumsy  compared  to  me.  Don't  you  bury 
us  too  near  together.  But  I'll  make  him  look  silly  in  hell 
presently  —  as  I've  made  him  look  silly  on  earth.  I'll  tell 
the  devils  about  him.  Just  cast  your  eye  over  him  —  a 
bloody  fool,  eh?  That's  all  he  is.  Yesterday  tingling  in 
every  nerve  and  brimming  over  with  hopes  and  tricks  and 
plans  to  get  a  good  life  —  full  of  pleasure  and  free  of  pain, 
and  now  useless  clay,  with  everything  lost.  Shut  your 
mouth,  Emma ;  what  are  you  screaming  about?  Was  you 
in  love  with  the  brute,  too?  " 

Parkyn  felt  his  self-control  leaving  him  before  this 
scene.  It  seemed  clear  that  Billy  was  insane.  He  felt  the 
situation  beyond  his  power  to  control,  and  he  hastened, 
hatless,  from  the  house  and  summoned  aid.  He  returned 
with  two  policemen  after  sending  messages  for  the  doctors. 

When  he  came  back  Emma  had  recovered ;  but  she  would 
not  be  taken  from  William. 

"  I'd  like  to  tell  you  all  about  that  muck  there,"  said 
Billy  to  the  police,  "  but  I  can't ;  there's  other  people  in 
it,  so  you'll  never  hear  how  wicked  he  was,  nor  yet  how 
clever  I  was.  A  masterpiece  if  it  were  known,  and  greatly 
to  my  credit.  It  may  get  me  into  heaven,  Parkyn.  But 
you  mustn't  hear  the  story,  my  old  bird  —  nobody  must. 
You'll  have  to  wait  for  the  next  world.  Take  it  away, 
policemen.  A  gentleman's  bedroom  is  no  place  for  that 
lump  of  dirt." 

An  inspector  followed  the  police  and  they  removed  the 
dead  to  the  floor  beneath  until  a  doctor  should  see  him. 
Billy,  who  had  made  Emma  give  him  liquor,  was  now  drunk. 
He  jeered  at  the  corpse  as  they  carried  it  away,  and  pres- 
ently sank  into  a  condition  that  seemed  half  sleep,  half 
death. 

His  brother  made  a  full  statement  to  the  police,  but  was 
unable  to  advance  any  reasons  or  explanation  of  the 
things  that  he  had  witnessed.  He  could  only  suppose  Wil- 
liam insane.     Mr.  Ambrose  grew  very  faint  himself  before 


MURDER  327 

the  end  of  the  ordeal,  and  the  doctor  when  he  arrived  first 
tended  him. 

They  looked  to  Emma  to  furnish  some  evidence  of  the 
significance  of  what  had  happened.     But  she  could  not. 

"  I  don't  know  nothing,"  she  said,  "  and  he's  said  he's 
not  going  to  tell  you  about  it,  so  if  I  knew,  I  wouldn't 
tell  neither.  And  I  pray  God  you  don't  take  me  away 
from  him.  He  can't  be  moved,  and  you'll  only  hasten  his 
end  and  do  no  use  if  you  take  me  awa}'." 

Satisfied  that  Mr.  Ambrose  need  not  be  doubted,  and 
prepared  to  accept  his  word  for  the  facts,  the  police  per- 
mitted the  shattered  master  of  "  Colneside "  to  return 
home.  His  brother  they  desired  to  arrest ;  but  two  doc- 
tors were  now  present,  and  as  both  declared  it  impossible 
to  move  William,  a  policeman  stopped  beside  him  and  spent 
the  night  watches  with  Emma  and  Thomas  Darcy. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

HELENA 

Helena  Ambrose  concealed  her  agony  and  displayed 
fortitude  that  amazed  herself.  But  the  luxury  of  grief 
was  demanded  by  her  nature ;  she  desired  to  dwell  in  every 
chapter  again,  before  the  book  of  her  past  was  closed  for 
ever;  and  since  there  was  now  only  one  in  the  world  who 
could  be  expected  to  know  what  Seabrook's  death  must 
mean  to  her,  she  sought  that  one  and  wrote  to  Aveline. 

"  To-day  they  are  burying  him  —  my  bright,  beautiful 
Geoffrey,"  she  wrote.  "  It  is  all  a  fearful  mystery  and 
will  remain  one.  My  life  is  ended,  Aveline,  and  I  shall 
never  believe  in  a  merciful  God  again.  I  cannot  even 
weep  in  peace.  There  is  nobody  to  share  my  desolation. 
My  husband,  too,  is  a  good  deal  broken.  To  see  a  man 
slain  within  a  yard  of  you  and  to  be  the  brother  of  a 

murderer But  of  course  the  creature  was  a  lunatic. 

Not  one  word  of  explanation  would  he  give.  When  one 
thinks  of  my  ceaseless  kindness  to  him  and  the  senseless- 
ness of  this  dastardly  crime,  one  can  only  see  madness  in 
it.  Please  arrange  to  come  with  me  for  a  little  change  to 
Bournemouth.  I  must  get  away  from  here,  or  I  shall  cer- 
tainly go  mad  and  do  something  dreadful.  It  is  fearfully 
hard  to  hide  all  that  I  am  feeling." 

She  proceeded  in  this  strain  for  several  pages  and  Ave- 
line feeling  sympathy  enough,  agreed  to  go.  She  wrote 
back  on  the  day  of  William's  death  and  recorded  it. 

At  Seabrook's  funeral  in  Colchester  a  congregation  of 
curiosity  filled  the  churchyard ;  but  the  brother  of  Par- 
kyn  Ambrose  was  buried  at  Brightlingsea  and  few  stood 
at  his  grave.     Aveline  went  with  Emma  and  waited  beside 

328 


HELENA  329 

her  while  the  pit  was  filled.  Tom  Darcy  accompanied 
them. 

"  My  master-bit  is  took  from  me,"  said  Emma,  who  wore 
a  black  dress.  "  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do,  but  garden 
on  his  grave.  I  won't  go  very  far  away  —  never  from 
Brittlesea." 

"  Mr.  Ambrose  didn't  come  to  the  funeral  ?  " 

"  No,  he  was  fairly  fed  up  with  my  Billy.  He  came 
down  once  more  after  that  fearful  thing;  but  William 
never  spoke  again.  They'll  always  say  he  died  mad,  of 
course ;  but  you  and  me  know  he  done  it  for  his  brother's 
honour.  But  for  Parkyn's  sake  and  that  Helena's  sake  he 
wouldn't  tell,  and  so  he  goes  to  his  grave  in  disgrace  in- 
stead of  dying  a  hero.  And  I'm  going  to  work  day  and 
night  till  I've  scratched  the  money  for  a  proper  marble 
tomb.  There's  nobod^^  can  prevent  me  putting  it  up,  is 
there?" 

The  day  was  wet,  and  as  the  women  walked  back  from 
the  churchyard  Aveline  perceived  a  black  stain  trickling 
down  the  face  of  Emma. 

"Oo!  Have  it  run.''  'Tis  my  turkey  feather.  I 
dipped  it  in  the  ink,  so  as  it  should  be  like  all  the  rest  of 
me,  black  —  black.  I  had  to  wear  it.  Something  called 
to  me  to  wear  it,  '  Grey  Eyes.'  He'd  have  fancied  a 
stranger  woman  was  walking  behind  him  if  I  hadn't  wore 
it." 

A  week  later  Aveline  joined  Helena  Ambrose  at  Bourne- 
mouth, and  in  the  seclusion  of  a  private  lodging  the  elder 
lady  gave  way  to  grief.  She  built  up  an  imaginary  Geof- 
frey and  soon  began  to  create  a  myth  for  her  comfort. 
She  found,  to  Aveline's  astonishment,  a  growing  measure 
of  consolation  in  religion,  and  withdrew  her  indictment  of 
the  Everlasting  after  they  had  been  at  Bournemouth  a 
week. 

Helena  considered  her  friend  also.  She  expressed 
thankfulness  to  know  that  Peter  IMistley  had  not  aban- 
doned her. 


330  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

"  He  couldn't,"  she  said.  "  You  did  wrong  for  nothing 
but  love.  It's  about  the  only  thing  we  poor  women  ever 
do  wrong  for,  I  believe.  I  shall  never  blame  you  — 
never." 

"  I'm  going  into  a  hospital,"  said  the  other.  "  I  want 
to  work  as  I've  never  worked  before.  For  good  reasons, 
too  —  for  good  reasons,  Helena.  And  also  because  it  will 
make  the  time  seem  shorter." 

"  Where  is  he  now?  " 

"  In  a  training  camp.  He  feels  the  same  about  work, 
and  welcomes  the  physical  toil  of  the  army  and  living  with 
a  crowd  and  everything." 

"  Geoffrey  was  facing  it  too.     His  dear,  beautiful  hands 

were  never  meant But  I  mustn't  think  of  things  like 

that.  I  keep  him  before  me  now  as  a  spirit  —  a  wise 
spirit  that  knows  how  wrong  we " 

"  Wrong ! "  cried  Aveline.  "  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you've  come  to  that.''  " 

"  I'm  coming  to  it,"  confessed  Helena.  "  I  shall  come 
to  it.  There's  nothing  else  left  for  me  to  come  to  —  no 
peace,  or  hope,  or  excuse  for  living  any  more  unless  I  do. 
We've  both  been  blind  in  different  ways ;  but  these  awful 
things  were  sent  —  they  were  sent  to  save  us.  I'm  going 
to  work  too  —  really  work  with  my  hands.  There  are 
trials  before  me.  I  shall  very  likely  hurt  my  husband; 
but  it  will  be  a  matter  of  conscience  now." 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about,  Helena.''  " 

"  It  doesn't  matter  for  the  present.  I'm  awakening.  I 
feel  it  more  every  day,  something  new  —  a  dawn.  I  am 
young  in  well-doing  yet,  God  forgive  me  for  it,  but  I  must 
try  and  make  up  for  lost  time.  I  yearn  to  get  peace 
through  suffering." 

Life  moved  with  Aveline,  and  she  learned  that  Mistley 
had  left  his  affairs  in  her  control.  Her  husband  divorced 
her  and,  on  visiting  Dr.  Carbonell,  she  heard  that  Mistley's 
home  was  to  be  given  up  and  his  possessions  stored,  after 
she  had  taken  all  that  she  wanted.     It  was  understood  that 


HELENA  331 

she  would  find  hospital  work  for  tlic  duration  of  the  war. 
The  old  doctor  was  gentle  and  cheerful. 

"  The  keen  men  are  getting  drafted  out  after  four 
months'  training,"  he  said,  "  and  Peter  is  as  keen  as  any. 
He  will  probably  be  going  to  France  about  February." 

She  was  startled  at  this. 

"  So  soon?  I  must  see  him  again  before  he  goes.  You 
must  make  him  see  me  again  before  he  goes.  Please,  Dr. 
Carbonell.  The  idea  was  we  shouldn't ;  but  I  can't  stand 
that." 

"  Leave  it  to  him.  He'll  know  what  you  feel  about  it. 
Men  get  a  few  days  with  their  friends  before  they  go  —  if 
they  want  them." 

"  He  may  not  want  them,"  she  said.  "  Don't  tell  him 
what  I've  told  you.     Promise.     Let  him  decide." 

A  week  later  Aveline  was  at  work.  Helena  sometimes 
came  to  her  hospital  with  flowers.  They  met  for  a  few 
minutes  near  Christmas  time,  in  the  leisure  hour  that 
Aveline  enjoyed,  and  during  their  talk  she  noticed  that  her 
friend  was  now  wearing  a  little  silver  cross  and  the  oval 
medal  of  a  religious  confraternit}'.  Still  she  studied  her 
attire,  but  there  was  a  suggestion  of  mouse-colour  about 
her,  as  though  she  were  emerging  timidly  from  mourning. 

"  And  so  I  am,"  declared  Helena  when  Aveline  sug- 
gested it.  "  That's  just  what  your  quick  sense  would  ap- 
preciate, my  darling.  There  are  great  changes  going  on 
in  me  and  I'm  suffering  for  them,  and  I'm  glad  I'm  sull'er- 
ing  for  them." 

"  You're  getting  religious,"  said  Aveline. 

"  The  comfort !  Oh,  the  unspeakable  comfort !  Slowly 
it  seemed  to  dawn  over  me  and  warm  my  frozen  heart.  It 
began  at  Bournemouth  at  that  Anglican  service  we  went 
to.  One  had  missed  half  the  real  help  and  warmth  and 
light  and  consolation  in  our  chilly  Protestant  surround- 
ings at  Mersea.      I  never  guessed  what  I  was  losing." 

"  The  candles,  and  incense,  and  going  to  church  before 
breakfast,"  suggested  Aveline. 


332  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

*'  Not  that  exactly ;  but  the  symbolism,  the  precious, 
vital  symbolism.  Such  a  revelation.  The  Stations  and 
so  on  —  like  spring  coming  over  the  winter  of  my  heart. 
Symbolism  is  my  very  food  now.     I  hunger  for  it." 

She  put  her  hand  on  her  bosom  and  her  little  medal 
jangled  against  the  cross. 

"  You've  been  joining  things,"  said  Aveline. 

"  Beautiful  things !  I  can't  tell  you  what  a  difference 
it's  making.  The  seed  was  there.  I  had  the  yearning 
often  —  for  something,  I  knew  not  what.  And  now  God 
has  led  me  to  it.  And  I  look  back  as  though  the  past  was 
all  a  dream  —  so  unreal  you  know  —  and  I  have  woke  up 
to  the  reality  that  underlies  everything." 

"  Lucky  woman !  "  said  Aveline. 

"  There's  bitter  in  the  sweet,  of  course." 

"You  can't  forget.?" 

*'  Not  so  much  that.  I  can't  forget,  but  I  don't  mourn 
—  for  him  —  only  for  myself.  We  erred,  because  we  were 
in  the  dark ;  we " 

"  Are  you  sorry?  "  asked  Aveline,  round-eyed. 

"  To  say  I'm  sorry  is  far  too  small  a  word.  I  feel  as 
the  Magdalene  felt.  And  that  makes  me  very  sure  my 
Master  will  not  judge  me  very  hardly.  Real  love  is  al- 
ways forgiven.  I  loved  much,  Aveline,  and  much  will  be 
pardoned  me ;  and  I  know  that,  behind  the  veil,  poor,  mis- 
taken Geoffrey  is  learning  just  what  I  am  learning  here. 
It  was  high  time  he  began  to  learn,  and  he  could  not  learn 
in  this  wretched  life,  so  he  had  to  go  to  the  next  and  learn 
there.  He  is  not  called  to  suffer  as  I  am  suffering.  And 
I  am  glad  to  suffer.  I  love  to  suffer  —  I  feed  on  suffer- 
ing.    I  have  splendid  fortitude." 

"  What's  left  to  hurt  you  if  you  are  so  pleased  with 
yourself.''"  asked  Aveline  rather  coldly. 

"  My  husband.  He's  martyring  me,  and  I  welcome  the 
pangs.  He's  low  church,  you  know  —  in  the  depths  — 
unspeakably  puritan.  I  never  realised,  or  cared  before, 
of  course,  and  it  didn't  matter  to  me  if  religion,  as  he 


HELENA  333 

understood  it,  was  dead  or  alive ;  but  now  religion  is  my 
life,  I  can't  palter  with  it  any  more,  Aveline.  I  go  to  con- 
fession.    I  told  Parkyn  so  and  it  utterly  upset  him." 

"  Confession,  Helena !  What  on  earth  have  you  con- 
fessed —  not ?  " 

"  No,  Aveline.  For  myself,  I  care  nothing.  If  you 
have  reached  to  what  I  have  reached  now,  you're  abso- 
lutely selfless.  But  there  was  another  to  consider.  It 
seemed  a  sort  of  treachery  to  the  dead.  There  are  some 
things  we  should  only  tell  to  God  and  trust  to  God.  At 
least  that's  how  I  feci.  But  Parkyn  is  fearfully  unhappy 
—  most  unreasonable.  Of  course,  I  can't  change  now. 
I  must  be  true  to  the  new  light.  I  can  only  go  on  and 
endure  and  hope  he'll  be  helped  to  understand.  That's 
the  worst  of  his  rather  stuffy  Christianity.  God  forbid 
I  should  say  it's  only  a  form ;  but  I  can't  make  him  sec  this 
in  the  real  Christian  spirit.  His  charity,  when  it  comes 
to  the  test,  is  nothing  worth.  Charity  begins  at  home, 
and  yet  he  would  deny  me  the  consolations  I  have  found." 

"  What's  his  objection.?  " 

"  Utterly  vague  and  senseless  when  j'ou  come  to  the 
point.  He  talks  of  '  toying  with  Rome  '  and  '  graven 
images.'  It's  so  stupid,  really.  Can't  an  intelligent  per- 
son see  the  gulf  that  separates  S3'mbolism  and  graven 
images.''  His  church  is  as  bare  as  a  barn.  Not  a  single 
symbol  for  the  aching  heart  to  rest  upon  —  the  aching 
eye,  I  mean.  Nothing  to  feed  the  hungry.  I'm  going  to 
be  free  and  open  as  the  daylight  henceforth,  Avdiiic. 
There  are  some  people  who  wear  these  symbols  under  their 
clothes,  because  they  are  cowards.  I  show  my  good 
works  —  at  least  I'm  going  to.  I'm  going  to  fight  and  be 
recognised  as  a  fighter.  '  Every  one  knows  what  you 
seem  ;  few  know  what  you  are  ' —  ^rachiavelli,  or  some  such 
person,  said  that.  I-et  people  know  what  you  are,  if  you 
want  your  conscience  to  be  at  rest." 

*'  How  perfectly'  wonderful !  "  said  Aveline. 

"  Don't  sneer,  please,"  answered  the  other  with  a  hint 


334  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

of  acerbity.  "  Some  are  led  by  harsh  paths  and  some  by 
easy  ones.  I  have  been  led  by  a  thorny  and  cruel  road; 
you've  had  your  way  smoothed  out  for  you  and  been 
extraordinarily  lucky  from  a  worldly  standpoint.  But 
that's  no  reason  why  you  should " 

"  Oh,  Helena,  I  wasn't  sneering;  I'm  much  too  surprised 
to  sneer.  It  is  wonderful.  It's  a  conversion,  isn't  it? 
And  conversion  is  always  wonderful." 

"  To  people  who  are  not  converted  it  may  be,"  answered 
Mrs.  Ambrose ;  "  but  not  to  those  who  are.  I'm  not  pre- 
|;ending  to  be  a  saint,  Aveline.  But  I  do  say  this :  you've 
got  to  be  a  sinner  before  you  can  be  a  saint.  I  cling  to 
that.  People  like  Parkyn  can't  be  saints,  just  because 
they  are  outside  the  possibility  of  sinning.  No  sinners,  no 
saints.     I'm  sure  that's  so." 

"  Poor  Billy  said  something  like  that  about  Mr.  Am- 
brose." 

"  When  I  know  more,  I  shall  tell  you  more,"  declared 
Helena.  "  I'm  a  child  in  these  things  as  yet  —  just  learn- 
ing, reading,  kneeling  in  secret  for  hours  with  an  open 
heart." 

"  You're  looking  younger  —  less  anxious." 

"  Because  I'm  being  myself.  I'm  not  seeming ;  I'm  not 
hiding  anything.  It's  the  same  with  you.  You  needn't 
hide  anything  any  more.  What  a  relief  it  is.  Some 
women  love  secrets  —  just  for  the  sake  of  having  them.  I 
never  did.     How  do  you  get  on  with  your  work.?  " 

"  All  right ;  but  a  good  many  women  here  won't  know 
me." 

"  You  must  expect  that.  That's  your  cross.  My  cross 
is  branded,  as  it  were,  inside  me.  Nobody  knows  how  it 
burns.  Your  cross  has  got  to  be  borne  openly.  We've 
each  got  our  own  secret  Red  Cross,  besides  the  one  you're 
wearing  on  your  sleeve.     I  glory  in  mine." 

"  I  don't  glory  in  mine  at  all,"  said  Aveline.  "  I  was 
wicked  to  Peter ;  I  wasn't  wicked  to  these  women." 


HELENA  335 

"  My  dear,  that's  no  argument.  You  were  wicked  to 
everybody  when  you  were  wicked  to  Peter." 

"  Were  you  wicked  to  everybody  when  you  loved  poor 
Geoffrey  Seabrook?" 

"  Yes  —  in  a  way ;  but  there's  a  good  deal  of  difference 
in  the  cases  really.     To  deceive  where  you  love,  as  you 

did But  we  need  not  talk  of  the  past  now.     We  are 

forgiven.  This  world  looks  so  different  after  one's  eyes 
have  been  washed  with  tears ;  and  so  does  the  next.  In 
fact,  you  can  only  see  the  next  through  tears  —  but  I'm 
keeping  you." 

"  I  must  go.  I'm  ever  so  glad  you're  happier,  Helena. 
You  know  that." 

They  kissed  and  prepared  to  part. 

"  This  all  seems  crude  to  you,  no  doubt,"  said  Helena ; 
*'  that's  because  you  only  see  the  results,  and  have  not 
shared  the  slow  successive  stages  that  produced  them. 
Ages  of  spiritual  experience  have  passed  over  me  in  the 
last  two  months.  The  danger  is  that  one  may  become 
dry,  and  find  the  light  ceasing  to  warm  one.  Spiritual 
dryness  is  a  most  trying  thing  —  a  sort  of  Nemesis  for 
spiritual  pride,  I  believe ;  but,  thank  God,  I  haven't  felt  it 
yet." 

She  babbled  herself  off  —  the  contented,  unconscious 
vehicle  of  a  dammed  sensuality  that  had  broken  loose  in  the 
terms  of  religious  revival. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

billy's  poem 

AvELiNE  saw  Peter  Mistley  before  he  went  to  France. 
She  had  declined  any  part  in  his  worldly  interests  or  share 
in  his  soldier's  pay.  She  explained  that  it  would  be 
more  agreeable  to  her  to  feel  free  in  every  respect  until  he 
returned.  Asked  whether  she  had  money  enough,  she  as- 
sured him  that  she  had.  There  were  no  calls  upon  her  at 
the  hospital. 

They  met  without  endearment.  Peter  was  a  sergeant 
now  and  declared  interest  in  his  new  profession.  He 
looked  hard  and  well.  Something  soldierly  had  come  into 
his  manners ;  something  of  discipline  and  promptitude  into 
hers.  They  hid  their  hearts  from  each  other.  Four 
months  of  hard  work  had  made  Mistley  ready  for  all  that 
might  await  him.  He  spent  most  of  his  leave  at  the  gar- 
dens with  Mr.  Ambrose,  and  found  time  to  finish  two  works 
that  Geoffrey  Seabrook  had  left  unfinished. 

*'  One  feels  the  firm  ground  slipping  in  these  troublous 
times,"  said  the  master  of  "  Colneside."  *'  Or  rather,"  he 
added,  "  only  faith  and  staunch  trust  in  the  ultimate  tri- 
umph of  right  prevent  one  from  feeling  so.  I'm  bound  to 
say  one  needs  one's  faith  and  is  daily  more  thankful  to  find 
it  stablished  on  a  rock.  There  is  an  instinct  abroad  in  the 
human  heart,  that  only  through  simple  and  childlike  trust 
in  the  Almighty  can  we  hope  to  weather  this  onset  of  the 
Powers  of  Evil.  And  that  trust  is  awakening  in  the  most 
unexpected  quarters.  I  hear  that  in  Parliament  an  in- 
creasing number  of  the  members  attend  prayers.  Our 
representatives  begin  to  feel  that  there  is  an  increasing 
need  for  God's  light  on  their  operations." 

836 


BILLY'S  POEM  337 

"  There  is  —  without  a  shadow  of  doubt,"  admitted 
Peter. 

"  We  are  all  being  tried  in  the  furnace,"  continued  Mr. 
Ambrose,  "  and  some  are  melting,  and  others,  as  I  say, 
are  inspired  to  seek  the  only  way  of  escape  and  ultimate 
triumph.  One  does  not  always  approve  of  the  means  of 
salvation  sought,  and  one  heartily  dislikes  the  approach  to 
God  through  channels  of  the  eye  and  through  appeal  to 
other  emotional  and  untrustworthy  elements  of  our  na- 
ture, peculiarly  susceptible  to  unwholesome  stimulus  just 
now.  But,  apart  from  certain  cases,  unfortunately  under 
my  personal  observation  at  present,  the  trend  is  to  the 
good.  As  for  you,  I  shall  regard  it  as  a  personal  blessing 
when  you  are  able  to  return  to  me.  God  be  with  you  in 
your  ordeal  and  strengthen  your  arm  against  the  foe." 

So  Peter  went  to  France,  and  Avclinc  found  that  he  had 
left  her  direction  with  the  authority  and  that  all  official 
news  of  him  was  to  come  to  her  in  the  name  of  Mrs.  Peter 
Mistley.  A  curt  official  postcard  came  with  certain  par- 
ticulars. 

"  You  have  been  noted  as  next  of  kin,"  it  said.  "  //  this 
soldier  is  reported  wounded,  admitted  to  hospital,  etc.,  you 
•will  he  informed  at  once.  This  xcill  he  done  hefore  the 
fact  is  published  in  the  newspapers." 

The  communication  moved  her  more  than  an3'thing  that 
had  happened  to  her  until  she  received  it.  It  brought  the 
tremendous  truth  of  the  situation  to  her  heart  and  re- 
mained like  a  load  thereon  henceforth. 

There  came  a  little  interlude  in  her  strenuous  life,  and 
she  attended  a  wedding  —  two  months  after  Peter  h;id 
gone  to  France.  Lieutenant  Andrew  Hempson  returned 
home  on  leave  and  married  Margery  Mayhew  bifore  he 
left  England  again.  Hempson  had  found  an  excuse  for 
existence.  He  proved  a  fine  soldier  and  his  qualities  won 
swift  recognition.  The  little  ceremony  was  made  bright 
by  the  flash  of  swords,  and  through  a  naked  glitter  over- 
head,  came   Margery    from  her   nuptials.      Mr.   Gregory 


3S8  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

Mushet  gave  her  away,  and  the  wedding  guests  included 
his  brother  Samuel  from  Brightlingsea,  and  Nancy. 

"  Can  you  trust  yourself  to  come,  my  old  dear?"  the 
engineer  of  the  Peewit  had  asked  his  wife ;  and  Nancy  an- 
swered — 

"  Why  not?  He'll  be  glad  enough  to  know  that  Madge 
is  going  to  be  happy." 

Aveline  clutched  at  the  little  hour  and  was  happy  to  see 
the  girl's  joy.  Indeed  she  felt  joyful,  too.  At  Margery's 
entreaty  she  attended  the  wedding  lunch  in  "  Fair  View 
Villa,"  and  spoke  awhile  with  Nancy  Mushet.  But  Greg- 
ory avoided  her,  and  was  uneasy  that  she  should  be 
there. 

"  Her  Red  Cross  dress  saves  her,"  he  said  to  his 
brother ;  "  but  she's  a  bad  character,  and  I  don't  like 
her  in  my  residence,  and  she  knows  it." 

The  sun  shone  for  Margery,  and  a  wintry  gleam 
warmed  Aveline's  heart  as  she  returned  to  her  hospital. 
The  work  of  the  wards  grated  against  every  instinct  and 
was  torture  to  her  temperament.  But  she  did  it  to  the 
best  of  her  power.  She  had  received  brief  letters  from 
Peter  telling  her  that  he  was  well,  and  she  had  written 
many  times  to  him,  and  sent  him  certain  things  that  she 
had  seen  advertised  as  valuable  for  the  fighting  men.  She 
was  expecting  another  letter,  and  when  she  returned  to 
the  hospital  it  awaited  her. 

A  telegram  also  awaited  her. 

Mistley  had  fallen. 

Not  until  long  afterwards  did  she  read  his  letter.  It 
thanked  her  for  the  gifts  and  declared  them  very  useful. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  come  back  to  you,  Aveline,"  he  con- 
cluded. 

She  broke  down  upon  her  sorrows  and  was  invalided. 
Helena  desired  to  take  her  away,  but  Helena's  ministra- 
tions   were    vain,    and   presently   Aveline    thought    upon 


BILLY'S  POEM  339 

Nancy  Mushet  and  went  to  Briglitlingsca.  She  had  be- 
come very  silent,  and  here  her  silence  was  respected. 

She  was  built  to  suffer  sharp  agonies,  but  not  the  long- 
drawn,  unwithcring  grief  that  profounder  natures  endure. 
She  dwelt  with  Peter  in  the  past  and  her  memory  took  her 
through  every  scene  and  painted  every  image  of  him  — 
from  the  first  by  the  HI}'  pond  at  "  Colneside  "  to  their 
final  parting  on  Colchester  railway  station.  Centuries 
ago  the  story  seemed  to  begin,  yd  all  told  it  was  short  of 
a  year.  She  distracted  her  mind  by  dwelling  on  the  tini- 
est details  of  their  swiftly  growing  intimacy.  She  com- 
forted herself  by  remembering  that  she  brightened  a  part 
of  his  life.  But  that  brief  sunshine  had  only  served  to 
make  the  final  storm-clouds  darker.  Was  he  vcr^^  sorry 
to  die?  She  knew  not.  Then  she  suffered  from  remorse 
—  an  instinct  that  she  had  always  scoffed  and  flouted  and 
declared  impossible  to  her.  That  she  could  feci  it  told 
her  new  things  about  herself  she  had  never  guessed. 

She  watched  Nancy  iNIushct,  and  saw  that  religion  was 
rounding  the  edges  of  her  sorrow,  and  faith  had  served 
greatly  to  lessen  it.  Nancy  had  reached  a  stage  when  she 
could  generalise.  There  were  glimpses  of  poetry  in  her; 
she  shared  the  world's  grief  and  was  no  longer  suffocated 
by  her  own. 

"  Death's  only  ]>icking  flowers  now,"  said  Nancy  once, 
standing  in  her  little  garden  beside  Avelinc.  "  He  lets 
the  ripe  fruit  and  grain  go  by  and  only  plucks  the  young 
flowers.  Snatches  them  with  both  hands  and  leaves  the 
old  stocks  that  nourished  thcin.  But  the  scent  of  the 
flowers  clings  to  the  gardens  still." 

"  Curse  death,"  said  Aveline.  "  It  is  far  better  not  to 
have  been  born  than  to  have  to  die." 

The  older  woman  took  her  hand  gently. 

"There  is  no  death  for  anything  that  matters,"  slie 
answered.  "What  we  call  death  is  only  putting  out  the 
light  when  we  go  to  sleep.     We,  who  know  the  sun's  going 


340  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

to  rise  and  wake  us  up  again  presently,  don't  curse  the 
dark,  but  welcome  it." 

Aveline  could  not  sleep,  and  she  took  long  walks  to 
weary  herself,  choosing  dreary  ways  and  finding  the  flat 
brown  earth  and  the  wild  skies  of  March  chime  with  her 
spirit.  She  was  tramping  along  a  road  outside  Bright- 
lingsea  one  evening  and  turned  to  look  at  the  sun  going 
down  over  the  elms  of  Mersea.  The  estuary  blazed;  and 
she  saw  the  Peewit  on  her  way  home  from  the  packing 
sheds.  The  little  steamer  looked  very  black  on  the  tide- 
way, for  sunset  flooded  the  water  with  light. 

In  a  field  close  to  her  half-a-dozen  amorphous  lumps 
moved  in  a  row.  They  were  women  returning  from  their 
work  and  as  they  approached  her,  Aveline  saw  Emma 
Darcy  among  them.  They  had  met  once  recently  for  a 
few  moments  and  arranged  to  meet  again.  Now  they 
walked  side  by  side  back  to  Brightlingsea  and  talked  to- 
gether. 

"  Goodstruth,  It  hurts  your  back  above  a  bit ;  but  it's 
welcome  hurt  to  me,"  said  Emma.  "  If  your  body's  ach- 
ing, your  heart  can't.  I  nilly  fainted  two  days  ago ;  but 
I  don't  care.  That  Helena  wants  for  me  to  work  in  a 
hospital,  but  I'm  a  out-of-doors  creature.  Billy  would 
rather  I  was  here." 

"  Time's  the  only  thing,  Emma." 

*'  Ah,  you're  young  yet.  The  young  can  trust  Time 
to  mend  their  troubles ;  but  us,  middling  to  old,  know 
Time's  thrown  us  over." 

"  You  want  to  be  young  to  feel  all  a  man  or  woman  can 
feel." 

"  It's  the  distance  from  death  that  makes  the  young 
smart  most,"  explained  Emma.  "  They've  got  such  cruel 
far  ways  to  go  before  they  creep  to  the  peace  of  the 
grave,  and  the  road  looks  so  terrible  long.  And  that's 
how  you  feel  now ;  but  you'll  be  a  mark  on  living  again, 
and  enjoying  life  too,  some  day." 

"  My  life's  finished  just  as  much  as  yours  is,"  declared 


BILLY'S  POEM  341 

Aveline.  "  WTiat's  left  will  be  a  dream :  the  reality's 
dead  —  just  as  dead  as  he  is.  I  sneered  at  the  world  for 
trying  to  tone  down  death,  as  it  has  been  lately.  It 
seemed  mean  and  disloyal  to  life;  but  now  I  know  better, 
Emma.  We  must  tone  it  down,  to  keep  ourselves  from 
going  mad.  We  don't  love  life  as  much  as  we  did  be- 
fore the  war,  because  it's  much  less  lovable  to  most  of 
us." 

"  The  war's  nothing  to  me.  It  ain't  the  war,  but  the 
emptiness  of  everything  now  Billy's  gone,"  said  Emma. 

"  Empty  —  yes.  Every  breath  one  breathes  is  empty. 
If  we  had  to  work  to  breathe,  many  of  us  would  stop,  feel- 
ing it  not  worth  while." 

"  I'm  a  good  bit  torn  in  half,"  confessed  Emma,  "  and  I 
catch  myself  wishing  a  thousand  times  a  day  that  Wil- 
liam was  here  to  tell  me  Avhat  line  I  ought  to  take.  I'm 
terrible  drawn  to  go  to  church,  and  3'et  can't  be  sure  if 
it  would  be  false  to  him  if  I  went." 

"  If  it  would  comfort  you,  I  should  go." 

"Do  you  go?" 

"No;  it  wouldn't  comfort  me.  I  haven't  forgiven  God 
yet." 

"Oo!"  said  Emma,  "if  that  isn't  like  William.  But 
he  did  forgive  God.  Would  you  like  to  see  the  rhymes 
he  made  up  when  he  was  dying.'*  Wicked,  you  might  saj', 
yet  wonderful  comforting  to  me.  Not  to  my  brother  — 
he's  on  to  me  to  burn  'em,  because  he  says  they  are  blas- 
phemy, and  might  get  me  locked  up  if  the}'  was  seen  by 
a  Justice ;  but  I  sa}'  it's  no  more  blasphemous  than  Billy's 
killing  of  that  bad  man  was  murder.  He  was  a  great 
hero  to  do  it,  and  still  greater  never  to  let  on  why  he 
done  it.  His  brother  little  knows  what  he's  got  to  thank 
Billy  for." 

"Helena's  like  you:  she's  taken  to  church,  Emma." 

"  If  you  don't,  I  shan't :  you're  cleverer  than  mc." 

"  It's  how  you're  built.  I  hope  you'll  go.  What  did 
Billy  write  before  he  died?  " 


342  THE  BANKS  OF  COLNE 

Emma  dived  into  her  bosom  and  produced  a  dirty  en- 
velope. 

"  Thank  God  I've  got  penmanship  and  could  set  it  all 
down  from  his  lips,"  she  said.  "  It's  a  bit  mad,  you 
might  say ;  but  it's  William,  and  I'd  keep  it  and  fight  the 
Justices  for  it  because  of  the  last  verse.  And  the  last 
verse  is  gospel  true,  '  Grey  Eyes,'  and  I  couldn't  go  on 
all  alone  if  I  didn't  know  it  was  true." 

She  unfolded  a  sheet  of  foolscap. 

"  I've  pasted  it  on  a  old  handkercher,"  she  said,  "  for 
I  oped  and  unoped  it  so  oft  that  it  began  to  fall  to  pieces. 
He  was  always  making  up  verses  when  he  was  dying  — 
he'd  wake  me  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  sometimes  to 
write  one  down.  And  many  I  tore  up,  because  they  were 
rude.  After  the  end  of  it,  when  he  killed  that  poor 
wretch,  he  didn't  make  up  no  more  poetry.  He  said  no- 
body could  make  up  poetry  with  a  policeman  always  in 
the  room.     A  song  he  called  it." 

Aveline  read  the  man's  doggerel  — 

"  I  do  not  know  what  lies  behind  the  face  of  the  old  moon; 
But  this  I  know,  if  there's  a  pub,  I'll  caU  there  very  soon. 

I  do  not  know  who  was  the  bloke  who  stole  my  best  umbrella; 
But  this  I  know,  despite  the  theft,  he  may  be  a  good  feller. 

I  do  not  know  when  He  made  me,  poor  God  Almighty's  whim; 
But  since  He  did  His  faulty  best,  I  freely  pardon  Him. 

What  Em  will  do  when  I  am  dead,  I  really  cannot  tell; 
But  this  I  know,  she'll  nose  me  out  in  heaven  or  in  hell. 

We'll  tramp  the  golden  streets,  or  else  the  cinders  and  the  pitch. 
So  long  as  we're  together,  it  don't  matter  a  damn  which." 

"  There's  a  mite  of  comfort  in  it  somehow,  '  Grey 
Eyes,'  "  explained  Emma,  folding  up  her  treasure. 

"  I  dare  say  there  is." 

"  Of  course  we  shan't  tramp  no  more,  nor  nothing  of 
that.  But  he  believed  that  we  should  meet  again;  he 
often  said  he'd  be  terrible  bored  till  I  came  to  him." 


BILLY'S  POEM  843 

"  I'm  sure  he  will." 

"  He'll  be  changed ;  but  I  hope  not  too  much  changed." 

"  I  hope  not.  It  would  spoil  him  to  change  him  too 
much,  Emma." 

"And  you?"  asked  the  elder.  "I'm  forgetting  your 
great  sorrows.  For  sure  your  man  felt  like  what  Billy 
felt  and  hoped  he'd  see  you  again.  I  knew  what  I'd  got 
to  face  and  was  prepared  for  it ;  you  didn't." 

"  Yes,  I  did ;  I  was  prepared  for  it,  too.  I  only  had  a 
ghost  of  a  hope  from  the  first,  Emma.  I  don't  think  he 
wanted  to  come  back  very  much." 

"  Goodstruth!     How  can  you  say  that?  " 

"  It  isn't  strange.  I  ruined  his  dream  of  me.  And 
that  wrecked  his  life.  He  must  have  known,  if  he  ever 
really  came  back,  that  it  would  take  ages  before  he  could 
trust  me,  or  respect  me  any  more.  And  no  doubt  he  felt 
the  game  wasn't  worth  the  candle." 

"  You  oughtn't  to  say  that,  and  him  not  here  to  deny 
it.  Lucky  you're  so  young,  for  you'll  have  more  than 
fifty  years  to  see  it  different.  And  if  he's  happy,  then 
'tis  your  place  to  be  content.  And  if  you  could  only  feel, 
same  as  I  do,  that  you're  going  back  to  him " 

"  Never,  never,  never.  Death's  death,  and  all  we're 
saying  about  it  now  is  a  sleeping  draught  to  soothe  our 
own  misery.  Only  our  own  secret  hearts  know  whether 
Death's  a  friend  or  an  enemy,  and  Iic'll  be  my  enemy 
always." 

"  I  wonder  now  what  3'ou'll  make  of  life,  when  you're 
three  tens  old,"  said  Emma. 


THE    EKD 


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"T^HE  following  pages  contain  advertisements  of  Macmillan 
books  by  the  same  author 


The   Green  Alleys 

EDEN  PHILLPOTTS'  NEW  NOVEL 

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"  As  long  as  we  have  such  novels  as  T/ie  Green  Alleys  and 
such  novelists  as  Mr.  Phillpotts,  we  need  have  no  fears  for  the 
future  of  English  fiction.  Mr.  Phillpotts'  latest  novel  is  a  repre- 
sentative example  of  him  at  his  best,  of  his  skill  as  a  literary 
creator  and  of  his  ability  as  an  interpreter  of  life."  —  Boston 
Transcript. 

"  The  Green  Alleys  is  the  best  of  all,  as  good  a  storj'  as  Mr. 
Phillpotts  has  written."  —  Neiv  York  Globe. 

"  A  drama  of  fascinating  interest,  lightened  by  touches  of 
delicious  comedy  .  .  ,  one  of  the  best  of  the  many  remarkable 
books  from  the  pen  of  this  clever  author. "  —  Boston  Globe. 

**  Mr.  Phillpotts  has  the  gift  of  conveying  atmosphere  in  a  re- 
markable degree  ...  a  finely  artistic  piece  of  work."  —  Phila- 
delphia Public  Ledger. 

"  Strongly  individualized  characters,  each  the  vessel  of  some 
human  drama,  crowd  the  pages,  .  .  .  revealed  by  a  thousand 
delicate  and  subtle  lines  of  portrayal."  —  New  York  Times. 


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BRUNEL'S  TOWER 

By  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 
Author  of  "The  Three  Brothers,"  "Faith  Tresilion,"  etc. 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.50 
The  regeneration  of  a  faulty  character  through  association 
with  dignified  honest  work  and  simple,  sincere  people  is  the 
theme  which  Mr.  Phillpotts  has  chosen  for  his  latest  novel. 
Always  an  artist,  he  has,  in  tlus  book,  made  what  will  perhaps 
prove  to  be  his  most  notable  contribution  to  literature.  Hu- 
mor and  a  genuine  sympathetic  understanding  of  the  human 
soul  are  reflected  throughout  it.  The  scene  is  largely  laid  in 
a  pottery,  and  the  reader  is  introduced  in  the  course  of  the 
action  to  the  various  processes  in  the  art.  The  central  figure 
is  a  lad  who,  having  escaped  from  a  reform  school,  has  sought 
shelter  and  work  in  the  pottery.  Under  the  influence  of  the 
gentle,  kindly  folk  of  the  community  he  comes  in  a  measure 
to  realize  himself. 

"It  touches  lightly  upon  love,  upon  tihe  pathos  of  old  age,  upon 
the  workman's  passion  for  his  work,  upon  the  artist's  worship 
of  his  art,  upon  an  infinite  variety  of  human  ways  and  moods, 
and  it  is  filled  to  its  depths  with  reflections  upon  life  that  are 
very  near  to  life  itself.  It  is  Mr.  Phillpotts  at  his  character- 
istic best." — Boston  Transcript. 

"The  daily  bread  of  life  is  in  this  book  .  .  .  magnificently 
written,  .  .  .  absorbingly  interesting,  and  holds  that  element 
of  surprise  which  is  never  lacking  in  the  work  of  the  true 
story  teller.  It  is  a  book  for  which  to  be  frankly  grateful, 
for  it  holds  matter  for  many  hours'  enjoyment. — Nezv  York 
Times. 


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BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

The  Human  Boy  and  the  War 

By  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

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In  this  book  of  stories  Mr.  Phillpotts  uses  his  genial  gift 
of  characterization  to  picture  the  effect  of  the  European  War 
on  the  impressionable  minds  of  boys  —  English  school-boys 
far  away  from  anything  but  the  mysterious  echo  of  the  strange 
terrors  and  blood-stirring  heroisms  of  battle,  who  live  close 
only  to  the  m.artial  invitation  of  a  recruiting  station.  There 
are  stories  of  a  boy  who  runs  away  to  go  to  the  front,  teachers 
who  go  —  perhaps  without  running;  the  school's  contest  for  a 
prize  poem  about  the  war,  and  snow  battles,  fiercely  belligerent, 
mimicking  the  strategies  of  Flanders  and  the  Champagne. 
They  are  deeply  moving  sketches  revealing  the  heart  and 
mind  of  English  youth  in  war-time. 

"  The  book  is  extraordinary  in  the  skill  with  which  it  gets 
into  that  world  of  the  boy  so  shut  away  from  the  adult  world. 
It  is  entirely  unlike  anything  else  by  Phillpotts,  equal  as  it  is 
to  his  other  volumes  in  charm,  character  study,  humor  and  in- 
terest. It  is  one  of  those  books  that  every  reader  will  want  to 
recommend  to  his  friends,  and  which  he  will  only  lend  with 
the  express  proviso  that  it  must  be  returned." — Arif  York 
Times. 

"  In  this  book  Mr.  Phillpotts  pictures  a  boy,  a  real  human 
boy.  The  boy's  way  of  thinking,  his  outlook  upon  life,  his 
ambitions,  his  ideals,  his  moods,  his  peculiarities,  those  are 
all  here  touched  with  a  kindly  sympathy  and  humor." —  \'riu 
York  Sun. 

"  Mr.  Phillpotts  writes  from  a  real  knowledge  of  the  school- 
boy's habit  of  thought.  He  writes  with  much  humor  and  the 
result  is  as  delightful  and  entertaining  a  volume  as  has  come 
from  his  pen  for  some  time." — Buffalo  Evening  Nczcs. 


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BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

Old  Delabole 

Cloth,  ismo,  $1.50 

A  critic  in  reviewing  Brunei's  Tower  remarked  that  it  would  seem 
that  Eden  Phillpotts  was  now  doing  the  best  work  of  his  career. 
There  was  sufficient  argument  for  this  contention  in  the  novel  then 
under  consideration  and  further  demonstration  of  its  truth  is  found 
in  Old  Delabole,  which,  because  of  its  cheerful  and  wise  philosophy 
and  its  splendid  feeling  for  nature  and  man's  relation  to  it,  will 
perhaps  ultimately  take  its  place  as  its  author's  best.  The  scene  is 
laid  in  Cornwall.  Delabole  is  a  slate  mining  town  and  the  tale 
which  Mr.  Phillpotts  tells  against  it  as  a  background,  one  in  which 
a  matter  of  honor  or  of  conscience  is  the  pivot,  is  dramatic  in  situa- 
tion and  doubly  interesting  because  of  the  moral  problem  which  it 
presents.  Mr.  Phillpotts's  artistry  and  keen  perception  of  those  mo- 
tives which  actuate  conduct  have  never  been  better  exhibited. 

"  Among  all  the  English  novelists,  the  command  over  the  inter- 
action of  place  and  character  has  its  greatest  prominence  in  Mr. 
Phillpotts.  During  the  past  twenty  years  he  has  written  of  the  scene 
and  people  of  England  with  an  accuracy  and  imagination  that  have 
brought  them  very  close  to  us." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  Besides  being  a  good  story,  richly  peopled,  and  brimful  of  human 
nature  in  its  finer  aspects,  the  book  is  seasoned  with  quiet  humor 
and  a  deal  of  mellow  wisdom." — New  York  Times. 

"  The  main  object  of  his  writing  is  to  make  his  readers  see  things 
as  they  are.  He  is  an  absolute  realist,  drawing  life  as  it  is.  His 
chief  mental  characteristic  is  the  way  in  which  he  always  thinks 
truth  and  faces  truth.  We  are  told  that  when  he  began  his  story 
of  the  pottery  industry  ('  Brunei's  Tower ')  he  lived  for  three 
months  among  the  potters,  making  friends  of  them,  learning  the 
processes,  as  Harry  Porter  does  in  the  book,  and  even  shaping  earth- 
enware on  the  wheel,  until  the  red  color  of  the  clay  got  into  the 
blood  of  the  characters  he  was  creating.  With  no  less  attention  to 
detail  was  '  Old  Delabole '  conceived.  While  we  do  not  know 
that  Mr.  Phillpotts  actually  descended  into  the  quarries  and  worked 
with  his  hands  —  though  it  is  quite  possible  that  he  may  have  done 
so  —  we  do  know  that  he  lived  on  intimate  terms  with  the  miners 
whose  lives  were  bound  up  in  this  great  industry. 

"  By  the  time  a  book  is  completed  Mr.  Phillpotts  is  on  familiar 
terms  with  every  inhabitant  of  the  place  —  and  he  is  popular  with 
them,  too.  Among  these  simple  folk  he  is  known  as  kind  and  un- 
selfish, a  man  of  charming  personality.  Almost  any  farmer  or  rab- 
bit warrener  or  humble  worker  in  the  slate  mines  will  tell  you  that 
he  knows  and  likes  that  artist  looking  chap  with  the  heavy_  brown 
mustache,  dark  hair  and  blue-gray  eyes  that  snap  with  quiet  fun 
as  he  talks." — New  York  Sun. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

Publishers      64-66  Fifth  Avenue      New  York 


OTHER  OF  MR.  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS'  NOVELS 

The  Three  Brothers 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $7.50 

"  '  The  Three  Brothers'  seems  to  us  the  best  yet  of  the  long 
series  of  these  remarkable  Dartmoor  tales.  If  Shakespeare 
had  written  novels  we  can  think  that  some  of  his  pages  would 
have  been  like  some  of  these.  .  .  .  The  book  is  full  of  a  very 
moving  interest,  and  it  is  agreeable  and  beautiful." 

—  New  York  Sun. 

Knock  at  a  Venture 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $1.50 

Sketches  of  the  rustic  life  of  Devon,  rich  in  racy,  quaint, 
and  humorous  touches. 

The  Portreeve 

Cloth,  i2mo,  $i.jo 

"  Twice,  at  least,  he  has  reached  and  even  surpassed  the 
standard  on  his  first  notable  work.  Once  was  in  '  The  Secret 
Woman.'  The  second  time  is  in  'The  Portreeve.'  In  sheer 
mastery  of  technique  it  is  the  finest  thing  he  has  done.  From 
the  beginning  to  the  end  the  author's  touch  is  assured  and 
unfaltering.  There  is  nothing  superfluous,  nothing  unfin- 
ished. .  .  .  And  the  characters,  even  to  the  least  important, 
have  the  breath  of  life  in  them." —  The  Providence  Journal. 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

Publiahers  64-66  Fifth  Avenue  New  Tork 


DATE  DUE 


STORAGE  RBI" 


I 


fMoS  02043  7008 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

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A  A         001  424  539  3 


